Trial and Error
by EndOfAppearance
Summary: Follow-up to 'Distraction'. Sherlock and John begin to try being a 'couple', and decide what they want from one another. At the same time, a shooting in central London starts a chain of events that threatens to tear them apart. !Smut warning. Pre-Reichenbach. Originally submitted under different username.
1. Chapter 1

The water ran slickly, caressing down his body, finding droplet lovers to engulf and mate with as it slid on its southward journey towards the drain. Fingers pushed the wetness around, pushing the skin of the water around… over hair, shoulders, lips and those increasingly-familiar scars. A man's mouth opened slightly in surprise and pain as bubbles were pushed over the tender scar tissue formed in his shoulder. He forced himself to relax.

"John?" came that sensual, baritone voice, weaving through the thunder-crash of the water.

"I'll be right out," the doctor called back through the glass of the shower-room door. He smiled to himself, rinsing off the suds. His last day in the hospital, and he wasn't going to miss it. Sometimes, he waxed lyrical too much…

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

John Watson had been back at 221B Baker Street for four days. The drains had been removed from his back and he had been assured by an amused-looking surgeon that he would be setting off airport security for the rest of his life, but he was _alive. _After all that had happened in _that house_ (he shivered slightly at the memory), he had walked out of St. Barts by himself, and got a cab home, by himself. And there the memory went sour.

John had walked back into the flat to find it spotlessly clean (thank you, Mrs Hudson…) but completely deserted. His heart had sunk into his walking boots immediately… Sherlock Holmes had visited him every day during his recovery, often staying the night (despite staff protests), but when it came to John's discharge, the world's only consulting detective was nowhere to be seen. It had been two days before he had finally stomped up the steps of 221B, dragging what looked like a lumpy potato sack behind him.

"Hello, John," he had said brightly, hauling the sack into the kitchen.

"Er… hello…" John didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Sherlock heaved the sack upright and leaned it against the wall before turning to the man he had, less than three weeks ago, said those three magical words to…

"Want some tea?" Sherlock clicked the kettle's switch and started opening drawers.

"What? Sherlock, where the _hell_ have you been?" John found it difficult to turn, so instead shouted at Sherlock's reflection in the window. "I had to discharge myself from hospital, get a cab here, _on my own_, and then come back to nobody!"

"Well, it's nothing you haven't done before," the dark-haired detective said, fishing a spoon out of the letter rack.

"Do you even _remember_ what happened to us, Sherlock?" John gripped the leather armchair with malice.

"Of course I do, I recall everything I choose to remember," Sherlock said, dropping the tea bags into a plant pot on the draining board.

"Then shouldn't you have been there for me when I was weak and needy?" the doctor said, his voice positively dripping in sarcasm.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, placing two mugs of tea on the coffee table. "John Watson, weak and needy? That's the last thing you'll ever be."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, I'm genuinely upset, you know," John took a mug without looking at his flatmate, who sighed dramatically.

"Alright, that's one strike against me already, I suppose," he glowered over the steaming liquid. "I just assumed that a grown man, fresh out of the armed forces, would be perfectly capable of making his own way home from hospital."

"That isn't the point," the ex-soldier said, nearly spilling his tea. "I said – no, you told me that you…" he could feel hot blood rising in his face. "Don't spoil this before it's even started," he finished darkly.

"You thought I stopped _caring for you_ because I didn't meet you from hospital?" the detective's eyebrows rose. "I thought you knew me better than that…"

"That's just it, Sherlock," John said, setting the mug down. "I don't know what to expect from you when you're alone in the flat, or fiddling with your chemistry set, or on a case, let alone when you're…"

"What?"

"Supposed to be in some sort of _relationship_," Dr. Watson finished, looking into those misty blue eyes. Eyes that now crinkled at the corners in a smile.

"I like that," Sherlock smiled, highlighting his expressive face and pulling those full lips into a gentle upward turn. "Relationships aren't generally for sociopaths, however it will be an intriguing experiment to see what sort of impact-"

John bashed at the arm of the chair, dust flying. "I am NOT an experiment, Sherlock Holmes!" he bellowed.

"Oh, come on, you'd like it," Sherlock's eyes glinted with mischief.

"And you know what I'd like, do you?"

"I like to think I've made some accurate deductions about you in the twenty minutes I've been home…" those icy eyes darted speedily over the doctor's seated body. "Your shoulder is hurting but you're not taking painkillers – you want to know the difference between healing pain and dangerous pain; you slept in that chair last night, listening to me coming home; you've also checked your phone more than one hundred and ten and less than one hundred and forty times… How am I doing so far?"

"I hate you," John smiled despite himself.

"I know," replied the irritating detective. "But, someone with little or no psychology knowledge once decided there was a thin line between hate and love," and with a look of true compassion on his face, Sherlock got up and walked over to his friend's chair and knelt beside it. "What do you think?"

"I think you'd better hope you don't cross that line," the seated doctor said nervously.

"Oh, I remember exactly how forceful you can be," Sherlock brushed beneath a classical cheekbone at the ghostly memory of an impacting fist. "I would surely not want you to have a seriously 'bad day'…"

"Is this you apologising to me?" John cocked his thinning head on one side.

"Of course it is, idiot," smirked Sherlock, planting a lightning-fast peck on his friend's cheek. "I told you, I want you with me…"

"…as long as you're alive," finished John, all annoyance forgotten. "And how long's that going to be?"

"Oh, I don't pretend to know everything, John," Sherlock said getting to his feet. He flexed his shoulders, straining the dark purple fitted shirt against his surprisingly hard and muscular chest.

"No," the doctor said, admiring his living work of art. "You really _do_ know everything, don't you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned down as if to say something more…

**Ding.**

Sherlock snatched his dark red mobile from his skinny-fit trousers. Those closed-door eyes skimmed the text message momentarily.

"Uh, why does everything I do have to involve _paperwork_?" he snarled, and he marched into the kitchen, pulled open the lumpy potato sack and dragged out a bloody and bedraggled man whose mouth was covered in gaffer-tape. Rolling the man out of the way, he rummaged in the bottom of the sack for a moment before pulling out a plastic wallet full of letters and a bright green passport. "Forgot to check him in at customs," he explained to the open-mouthed doctor, as he replied to his brother's message with the same chilling cool attitude he always displayed.

_Will he ever change? _John found himself wondering.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

That had been two days ago, and apart from one very wet, hurried kiss snatched over the breakfast table moments before Mrs. Hudson had appeared with the post, the two men were behaving as they had always done. The only difference, as John Watson could see, was how his already overactive imagination was beginning to run away with him.

_Trial and error, I guess, _John thought as he dried and dressed hurriedly. _This is as new to me as it is to him, after all… Time to cut him some slack and let this… whatever it is, take its own shape._

Wrenching open the door, the ex-soldier momentarily lost his cool as he almost fell into the enormous bunch of flowers being brandished at him by a Sherlock Holmes that looked extremely pleased with himself.


	2. Chapter 2

"You… bought me flowers?" John said, taking the huge, white blooms from Sherlock whose ordinarily plaster-white face was tinged with the subtlest hint of pink.

"Yes, do you like them?" the taller man touched a bruised rose with a slender finger.

"I love them!" John said, turning the bouquet to admire it. As a lifetime buyer rather than receiver of flowers, he knew he was holding an expensive and delicate arrangement. "Thank you, Sherlock," he blushed and leaned around the petals to meet the shyly smiling lips of his friend and love.

It was a teasingly gentle, schoolboy kiss that ignited a burning sensation in Dr. Watson's stomach. He felt gooseflesh rise on the back of his neck and knees as they broke away and grinned stupidly at each other.

"I'd best put these in some water," John said, taking the bouquet into the kitchen and emptying something brown out of the nearest vase.

"Don't take too long," Sherlock said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. "We're going out."

"Out? What - is there a case?"

Sherlock Holmes sighed, running a hand through his always-immaculate mop of black curls. "No, I thought we could go out, like a date or something."

John nearly dropped the vase. "A date? Have you been watching daytime TV again?"

"Do you want to come or not?"

"Sherlock Holmes brings me flowers and then takes me on a date," John placed the flowers on the table and shoved his hands in his pockets in embarrassment. "You've no idea what this means to me."

"Of course I know," Sherlock said, picking up his coat. "I know exactly what you want from me."

And with a last look at his unexpected gift, John pulled on his jacket and followed the smug and delightful detective into the London evening.

*/*/*/*/*/*/

"People usually talk about themselves on dates," John said as he wound pasta around his fork. "So what should we talk about? And don't say 'work'!"

"I wasn't going to say 'work'," Sherlock said, pushing his food around his plate. "You could tell me about your army days… I haven't quite deduced everything about that yet?"

"Uh," John winced in distaste. "I'd rather not. Blood and fodder aren't exactly good table conversation."

"I'm always interested in your stories," lied Sherlock.

"Why don't you tell me about you, for a change?" the ex-soldier picked up a slice of bread. "Give those of us who can't see into other people's lives a break?"

"There's nothing to tell," the detective shrugged and set his cutlery down. As far as John could see, Sherlock had simply re-arranged his food instead of eating it.

"Where did you grow up? School? Actually – how old are you?" John frowned at the realisation that he had no idea of the simplest things about the man he loved.

"I'll check my passport when we get home," Sherlock said, examining his fingernails.

"You don't know how old you are?" the doctor nearly choked on garlic bread.

"Uh, details. It doesn't matter, does it?"

"Well, it'd be nice to know, that's all…" John folded his napkin back up and set his silverware on the empty plate. "I don't want to be a cradle-snatcher or anything." Sherlock smiled at the idea of John ever being seen as a cradle-snatcher.

"Finished? Let's go somewhere," Sherlock stood and started putting his coat on.

"Shouldn't one of us pay?" John looked over at the chatting servers.

"No need… personal favour," Sherlock nodded at the Maître D' and watched his doctor zip up that high-street anorak he always wore and marched out into the cold.

Winter was approaching, and the streets of London were carpeted in the enormous maple leaves and thick sludge from boots and shoes. Holmes inhaled deeply, enjoying the sting of the cold air filling his lungs. It would frost in three days time. Dr. Watson came out of the Italian Restaurant rubbing his hands together.

"Blimey, it's a chilly one tonight," he said irrelevantly. He looked up at the stars. "The only constellation I know is 'The Plough'", he pointed out the vague square-and-stick arrangement above the atmosphere. "How's your astronomy coming on?"

"Until people start committing crime in space, I'm afraid you shall have to play Patrick Moore for me," the detective squinted at the tiny dots of light above him.

"Gives me a purpose, I suppose," John laughed, zipping his coat up to his chin. "Let's go, Sherlock, it's bloody freezing here." He looked up and down the street. No cabs. "Well, let's walk somewhere, anyway," he started towards the main road. "That was a pretty standard first date, you know," he said as Sherlock walked beside him.

"What do you mean 'standard'?"

"Italian Restaurant. I must have done it myself at least twenty times," John laughed. "That's what TV land does to us – makes us think we know it all…"

"But you enjoyed it?"

"Of course, but – "

"Then what does it matter if it's expected and boring?" Sherlock snorted, steam dancing into the night. "You did not dislike it…" They crossed the road and wandered into the small park that sat central to many streets, including Baker Street.

"You didn't let me finish," John said and without thinking took hold of Sherlock's hand. The detective snatched it away as though it was on fire. The doctor stopped walking, feeling as though he had been punched.

"Sorry," said Sherlock, reaching for his friend's hand. "It was just… unexpected." He threaded his spidery fingers through John's shorter, more practical ones.

"I was going to say," John said, looking intently at the contrast between their two skin tones. "I only enjoyed it so much because it was with you," and he pulled a face at the consulting detective's look of surprise and delight. "You know, I think I've realised why you don't let yourself be surprised very often," he said, squeezing the thin hand.

"Why?" Sherlock said, inclining his intelligent head slightly.

"Because you look so bloody _handsome_ when you've been caught off guard!" John said and put a strong arm around the slender frame of his friend, pulling him close. "You'd be fighting them off if you had my brain."

"Then let's be grateful you have possession of that particular… organ," Sherlock said softly, pressing his lithe body against the thicker and more muscular form of the man he loved. The park was silent. Only the hum of passing traffic back at the road could be heard as they stood like two statues, frozen in an uncertain embrace. John felt that increasingly-familiar heat run through him, coming to settle somewhere near his groin, creating a pressure he was sure Sherlock could feel pressing against his leg.

The world's only consulting detective placed a sensitive and gentle hand on the back of John's head and traced down his forehead, nose, down to waiting mouth, enjoying the nervous breathing that was accompanying John's unmistakable state of arousal. _Was it really going to be this easy?_ He thought to himself. Teasingly, he brushed John's parted lips with his own, plumper, more feminine ones, at the same time pressing himself against the doctor whose knees gave a barely-detectable wobble.

"Sh... Sherlock," John whispered.

"Problem, John?"

"Do… do you want – "

**BANG**

The gunshot rang out into the pitch of the night, shattering their clinch and making John almost topple over in fright.

"What the _fu- "_ A car's breaks screamed in the distance and a siren wailed.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders, making the still-sore doctor shriek in pain. "Sorry," he said, letting go. "Come on, John," he pulled at his lover's hand and began to run towards the sound of the gunshot. His eyes were wide with the delight of the chase, and John Watson could only stumble behind, wondering if he had done anything to offend the universe for spoiling what should have been a most perfect moment.


	3. Chapter 3

The gun was still smoking; figuratively and literally, when the men rounded the corner of the path and took in the scene before them.

A thin man in his twenties; basketball trainers, faux-Japanese jacket and sandy blonde hair was pointing a handgun at the space where another thin man, this time with greying black hair and glasses had stood moments before. This victim now lay dead on the ground, his arms spread out wing-like and his legs buckled in an unnatural position. Dark red blood was seeping through his grey wool coat, and forming a puddle on the ground beneath him.

John's doctor reflexes took over and shoving Sherlock out of the way, ran towards the dead man. Sherlock winced at the firm hand of pushing him out of the way, but quickly dismissed the thought as surprisingly bright blue eyes turned towards him. They were shining with tears.

"What… what just happened?" the sandy-blonde man whispered. The consulting detective narrowed his grey eyes and took a careful step towards the gunman, whose arm was still rigid – the boyish muscles stretched and taught.

"Someone has been shot," he said carefully, keeping eye contact with the suspect. On the concrete pathway, John Watson had stripped the victim of his coat and was applying pressure to the wound – his left fingers were pooled in the man's blood, and his right hand held his phone to his ear. He was speaking quietly, yet urgently.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John-at-work and assessed the gunman. He was not experienced – the force of the shot had been painful, and he was shifting the weight of the weapon in his fingers, as if unsure how to hold it.

"What is your name?" the detective asked slowly.

"Will," answered the suspect, his arm going suddenly slack. The handgun pointed at the floor. "Have I shot someone?" Will's shining eyes squinted at the doctor and the victim on the ground as if he could not quite see them. "Who is it?"

"We're not sure," Sherlock answered. "However, in the circumstances, I think it would be helpful if you gave me the gun," and taking his beloved scarf from around his neck, he lay it in a white hand and offered the strange cushion for the gun to sit on.

"Yeah, of course," Will said, taking the two steps towards the taller man and putting the weapon carelessly into his hand. "Better for you to have it, I suppose," he smiled lop-sidedly.

"Now," Sherlock said, clicking the safety on through the scarf's material. "Who is that man on the ground?" The younger, blonder man turned and frowned at the medical scene below. Somewhere, blue lights flashed and a siren wooped. Help was close.

"I think I know him, you know?" Will replied, staring hard at the body. "His name is… Anthony, I think."

"And what does Anthony do?" Sherlock said, watching a pulse in Will's neck.

"Oh, he's really clever. He's training to be a doctor," Will said proudly.

"Do you like him?"

"I, er… well, I love him, actually, he's my…" the blood began to drain out of Will's face. "Oh, jesus shitting hell… _fuck!_" his slightly tanned hands grabbed hanks his sandy hair and pulled. "Fuck, is he… is he alright? What – what's going on?" the man rubbed his eyes and started towards Dr. Watson and what remained of Anthony. Sherlock grabbed hold of his jacket and held him back.

"Look," he said sharply. "He's not well – my friend is a doctor, he's going to do what he can, alright?"

"He's dead, isn't he?!" Will said, his voice cracking as he resisted Sherlock's grip. "I… I… I fucking shot him! What the fuck was I thinking?! Oh, Ant! Ant! ANT!" he screamed, as Sherlock enveloped him with both arms and dragged him to the ground, kicking and shouting at the lifeless body of his boyfriend.

John looked up from the cooling body to see Sherlock, coat sprawled open, his legs and arms trapping a writhing and screaming young man against himself. On the ground, his trademark scarf lay with a black pistol nestled in its folds. His soldier's ears picked up the sound of heavy police boots running their way. He clicked his phone closed, pleased that reinforcements were here. This had to be the worst first date ever.

*/*/*/*

"At the risk of sounding cliché, what's all this, then?" The greying head of Detective Inspector Lestrade looked down at the scene – John Watson up to his elbows in someone else's blood, while Sherlock Holmes wrestled uncharacteristically with his thin legs wrapped around a bawling man in his twenties who was fighting tooth and nail to get to the bleeding man.

"Oh, do shut up, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, struggling to keep a hold on his suspect. "The murder weapon is on the ground, kindly resist stepping on it after I went to so much trouble to keep it clean," even as his captive writhed about, the detective managed a dramatic eye-roll.

"Alright, give Sherlock a hand with that," the D.I pointed and Holmes was relieved of Will by two much burlier and more capable-looking officers. He straightened his coat and made an immense effort to look dignified in front of an amused-looking Lestrade.

"Problem, Detective Inspector?" he said haughtily as John Watson was handed a cloth by the paramedics to wipe his hands on.

"No," shrugged Lestrade. "Just never thought I'd catch you in a deserted park wrestling with a young man, that's all," and his blank façade cracked into a grin.

"Oh, please," Sherlock sneered, watching his friend finished explaining to the on-call BASICS doctor what had he had done before handing the bloodied cloth back. "Don't you think we would have chosen a spot without a dead body three feet away?"

"I don't," replied the flat voice of Sally Donovan. "Turns you on, doesn't it, all this blood and drama?"

"Donovan, you don't have the faintest idea about what 'turns me on'," the consulting detective shot back.

"Want to bet?" her dark eyes flashed and flickered, lightening-fast towards the approaching Dr. Watson.

"Gambling is for people too stupid to deduce the outcome by themselves," Sherlock snorted, keeping eye contact with the woman.

"Ok, children," Lestrade sighed, putting a hand onto Sherlock's coat. The taller man shrugged it off automatically. "Sherlock, tell me what happened here, first as a witness, then as yourself, alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, turning up his collar. "Your place or mine?"

"I think you'd better come down to the station," Lestrade replied.

"Where are we going?" John appeared at his friend's side. Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding.

"Lestrade's," Sherlock said, following the Detective Inspector towards the squad cars flashing silently in the park.

"Where's the gunman?" the doctor said, looking around.

"Arrested," the detective replied simply.

"Jesus, what a night," John ran a calloused hand over his tired face. "The victim didn't survive – shot in the stomach… he'd not been dead for long when I got there, but…" he trailed off.

"And we've got the murderer," Sherlock said.

"So why don't you look happy?" John said in surprise. "You love solving cases, and this opened and closed right in front of you."

"Oh, this hasn't closed," Sherlock smiled, his grey eyes sparkling with excitement. "It's only just begun, John. Only just begun…" and he opened the door of the police car and indicated John should go in first. His friend paused in confusion before ducking into the vehicle with an amused smile on his face.

Sherlock Holmes inhaled the darkness, tasting the starlight and murder in the air. What a night it has been. John had been so happy with his gift; he had enjoyed watching him eat the food at the restaurant; the embrace at the entrance to the park… Sherlock felt a blush creep across his nose, and a rush of blood over his extremities. He smiled briefly. Then, to top it all off, a murder. This, Sherlock thought to himself as he got into the car, had to have been the best first date ever.


	4. Chapter 4

John pulled off the thick, cable-knit jumper with difficulty. Though he had been officially discharged, the latest wound in his shoulder was still very sore. Steadily, he unbuttoned the plaid shirt, noting the increasing lack of tone in his body – although compared to the man on the street he was still fit and well built. _Just not a solider anymore,_ he thought sadly. _Still, with all the running around we do…_ images of the ex-soldier and Sherlock sprinting through the cold London streets flickered in his mind. _I'm bound to keep up a certain level of… fitness. _He flung the clothing to the floor, too tired to even consider picking it up.

He walked over to the full-length, rectangular mirror and frowned at himself. Glaring at his left shoulder, the corner of his eye caught sight of a blurring, blue-black tattoo in the image of the crest of the Fusiliers – his former regiment. It was a permanent reminder of his bloody and glorious past, and one that John no longer noticed – the ink in his skin was as much a part of him as his heart. Not so much the unseen bullet wounds that could be felt, though they remained unseen.

They were the two major imperfections on his body. A multitude of smaller scars and burns ran over his toned arms – in the back of John's mind he wondered why he chose to favour those unflattering, baggy sweaters.

He thought of Sherlock's tight-fitting and wonderfully revealing shirts and skinny trousers – each with a designer label. Sherlock might not know a great deal about the world at large (aside from criminal law and other information deemed important enough to be 'useful'), but he certainly knew how to dress and show off his body.

_Well, that's Prep School for you, _John though wryly, pulling on the cotton pyjama top. A fleeting imagining crossed his mind, and for a moment he considered trying on Sherlock's shirts, to see if he could carry one off. He smiled at his reflection and shook his head. The differences in their physiques surely meant that he would split the expensive cotton at the seams… and that would certainly leave the detective he loved in a bad mood. And with the events at the station earlier that night…

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

It had started interestingly enough. John had given a witness statement and then, his shoulder paining him, got a cab home to Baker Street. Sherlock, on the other hand, had opted to listen into the interrogation cell.

"Tell us what happened, Mr. Yates," Lestrade said gently.

"We were in the park," Will said, pulling the skin away from his nails and fingers. "We'd gone there… you know, like a date…"

"What? In a deserted park?" Greg asked carving a deep frown into his forehead. Sherlock cleared his through slightly and Will went red. A look of slow understanding washed over the Detective Inspector's face.

"So," he carried on as if nothing had happened. "You go into the park," he continued, glancing at the small black digital recording box. "Then what?"

"I…" Will looked down at the table. "I don't really remember," he said lamely.

"You don't remember?" Lestrade said stupidly.

"Mr. Yates is telling the truth," Sherlock breathed near-silently. Lestrade turned to look at the consulting detective, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Trust me," the curly-haired man whispered again. Lestrade paused as if to say something else, then bit his lower lip and turned back to the suspect.

"What did you do, William?" The D.I said slowly.

"I remember… I remember there was a gun. I had a gun," Will's face screwed up with the effort of remembering. "I had it in my inside pocket… why would I keep it there?" he laughed nervously, looking up at Sherlock who stared back.

"Go on," the baritone voice said dully.

"I took it out, showed it to Ant," Will said, keeping his eyes on the detective. "God, he was so scared. He said to throw it away, we'd go somewhere, no one'd know it was mine…" he looked back at Lestrade whose frown relaxed slightly. "Then… then I met you," the blonde man's bright blue eyes looked back at Sherlock. "You took the gun off me, and…" his eyes swam with tears. "And Ant was… was…" he began to dissolve.

"Thank you, Mr. Yates," Sherlock flipped his collar up and let himself out of the interrogation cell. Greg Lestrade said a few formalities to William and followed the taller, darker man into the main hustle and bustle of the station. Even at night, London's finest never stopped.

"So?" the greying man stopped beside the one with the messy mop of black curls.

"He's not lying," Sherlock said as if it were perfectly obvious. He pulled back a thick coat sleeve and started to peel off an old nicotine patch. "He doesn't remember shooting his boyfriend."

"Why?" the D.I said, his mouth hanging open guppy-like.

"I plan to find out 'why'," Sherlock replied, taking out his phone. Lestrade watched the spidery thumbs begin to text.

"So now what?" Lestrade asked. "All I need is the CCTV from the park and I've got a conviction, Sherlock."

"You have," he replied. "William Yates shot Anthony Clayton. Case, as they say, closed."

"But, what about his memory? Why are you even bothered about this one?" Lestrade shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, just because he shot him, doesn't mean he committed a crime, Inspector," Sherlock smiled. "I'll be in touch," he said, heading for the door.

"I can't stop a trial, Sherlock!"

"I don't expect you to, Inspector!"

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

As John pulled the sheets up over himself, he heard the front door slam. _Sherlock…_

He forced himself out of bed, his shoulder nagging at him to rest, and opened his bedroom door. The tall, thin man was taking his trademark coat and scarf off and hanging them on the hooks in the hallway.

"How'd it go?" the doctor yawned.

"Oh, as expected," Sherlock replied, scratching the tendrils of hair that touched the back of his neck. "He still couldn't remember anything," the detective undid his second button and looked at the tired form of John Watson. "Were you asleep?"

"No, not quite," John replied. "Did you want a tea or anything?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock strode into the lounge. "I'll be working all night. I wouldn't mind some – "

"No way," smiled John. "You don't need it, you've got a mystery to unravel."

"True," Sherlock opened the laptop and switched on the standard lamp.

"See you in the morning, then." John turned and made to go back to his room.

"John…" there was a confused, longing note in the detective's voice, and Dr. Watson knew what it meant.

"Oh, sorry," he smirked and crossed the room to the table which bore both his lavish flowers from Sherlock and the laptop where his flatmate planned to spend the night. The doctor placed his thick arms around the slender, feminine waist of the man he adored. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he said softly.

"Goodnight, John," the detective flickered a smile down at his love and gave the firm body in his arms a gentle squeeze. There was a pause as they bathed in one another's eyes – icy grey touching warm brown. John leaned up slightly towards the plump, inviting lips of his friend, and found the reach returned into a chaste, sweet kiss goodnight.

"Until the morning," Sherlock breathed into the shell of John's ear.

"Don't work too hard," John pulled away and kissed Sherlock's nose. The detective wrinkled it in distaste, then fought to rearrange his features into something more pleasing. "Oh, stop it," the doctor laughed quietly. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Sleep well, John," and with a final lingering stare, they parted ways in the depths on the night – each one headed to comfort and rest, but with very different routes to get there.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days were typically Baker Street. In between fending off the boring, repetitive cases brought to their door, John and Sherlock had been researching William Yates and the shooting in the park. Will had been taken to court and had been advised by his lawyer (who seemed incredibly smug that Sherlock Holmes was interested in his client) to plead Not Guilty. While John could see the sense in prolonging the case, there was also the underlying fear that perhaps it was all just a front, Will had shot Anthony (as witnessed on CCTV) and was feigning his memory loss. Sherlock disagreed.

"He is not lying," he insisted, glaring over the lid of the laptop.

"How can you be sure?" John asked, replacing the cold tea with a hot mug.

"I observe," the detective snapped back, looking back at the website. John shuffled back to the armchair and his book. There was little use talking to Sherlock when he got into one of his moods. Already it was Friday, a week since their first official 'date', and John couldn't recall them spending a single moment together that wasn't completely wrapped up in work. He glanced at the flowers – newly thinned by his own clumsy hand, and remembered how wonderful it had felt to receive a gift from Sherlock – any gift was unexpected and amazing from the self-diagnosed sociopath.

"Do you realise," John began that evening, "That you haven't spoken to me in over nine hours?"

"Yes, I am aware of that," came the scathing reply.

"Well, most people would either call that rude or ignorant," the hurt one explained.

"What?" Sherlock leaned back on the kitchen stool to frown at John.

"You're being rude," John simplified.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Sherlock rocked back onto four legs of the stool. "I haven't got time for a – "

"Domestic?"

"Exactly," the detective snorted, fingers flying over the keys. "I thought we had cleared this up when you got home from the hospital – I believe you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself."

"I spend most of my time looking after you," John said, flipping open the evening paper. There was a derisive "ha!" from behind him. He knew it was useless to argue with someone as calculating as Sherlock Holmes, but still… _I did expect him to change a little… after what he told me in the hospital_, he thought, staring blankly at the columns. There was a sinking feeling in the doctor's stomach, and images of girlfriends past filed past his mind's eye like some sort of strange parade.

_Did I make any of them happy? _He wondered. _Does Sherlock make me happy?_ It was a difficult question, and not one that John felt ready to answer. He filed the thoughts away for later. Despite his mocking, he was beginning to construct a similar memory method to Sherlock… if not a Mind Palace, then certainly a Mind Box.

"Have you eaten anything today?" he turned in the armchair to see Sherlock making a face at the already cool tea.

"There have been much more pressing issues at hand," he replied. John got to his feet, flinging the newspaper onto the coffee table.

"I'll make us something," he said, brushing past the detective-at-work and wrenching open the fridge. Avoiding the left-hand salad drawer (numerous awful experiences had meant establishing a compromise in the Baker Street fridge), he pulled out ingredients for a chicken stir-fry and took them over to the tiny work-surface. Sherlock did not comment – only raised his immaculate eyebrows at the sight of John rolling up his lumberjack sleeves and washing his hands.

"If we aren't going to do anything horribly 'coupley'," the chef said, beginning to chop vegetables, "we should at least eat together."

"We always eat together," Sherlock protested.

"No," John corrected, slicing the chicken thinly. "I eat and you watch," he pressed the gas ignition, listening to the roar of sudden heat.

"Is that… not good?" the usually articulate detective fought to control a smile.

"Well, I didn't expect you to have a food fetish," John said with deadpan seriousness, "but everyone's different of course…"

"I don't have a food fetish," Sherlock said, too quickly.

"No," John said, throwing the ingredients into the wok. They hissed satisfyingly. "Of course you don't."

"I just enjoy seeing you… _happy_," Sherlock said, beginning to flap with one hand.

"There's no need to try and justify it," John said stirring solemnly, "I still like you, even with you food kink…"

"There's not… I don't… _John!_" Sherlock stood up off the stool, unsure whether to laugh or be furious at his friend's merciless teasing.

"Yes?" the doctor asked innocently, adding sauce to his cooking.

"The food thing, it's not… I've just never been one to sit down and spend time staring at a pile of slowly, microscopically decaying flesh and vegetation, putting it in my mouth and having to indulge in _small talk_," Sherlock shuddered, and John clicked the heat off, tipping the chicken, vegetables and noodles onto two white, square plates.

"Try it," he said helpfully. "You might enjoy my version of decaying flesh," he said it with such earnestness that Sherlock's frustrated face split into a flash of a grin and he took the steaming plate from his friend. "And now," John said, "we sit together and we discuss our day," he sat cheerfully at the clear end of the table. Sherlock dragged his stool with one hand to join him, so they were facing each other.

"This is – " Sherlock began, raising his fork experimentally.

"No, no," John corrected. "You open with a question," he cleared his throat dramatically. "How was your day, Sherlock?" he smiled pleasantly.

"It… I've been… you know what I've been doing," Sherlock twirled a single noodle around the tines.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was mentally stimulating, if that's the answer you're searching for," the hesitant eater swallowed his first, miniscule mouthful.

"Brilliant," John said, scooping up a more substantial forkful. "Want to know what I've been doing all day?" without waiting for an answer, he continued, "I've been sorting the blog out… finally got that visitor counter to stop saying 1895, and got rid of a few of those irritating comments," he paused to swallow, "And then I went out, did some shopping, but I don't think you noticed I was gone," Sherlock shook his head silently, stabbing at a piece of meat. "And after that, I pointed out that you hadn't spoken to me in nine hours,"

"Perhaps I should start eating with murder suspects," Sherlock mused, staring at the chicken on the end of his fork. "If it encourages people to explain their every move like this…"

"You don't have to be interested," John explained, "It's more of a cathartic exercise for the one talking… a vent of the day's happenings," he scooped the last of the food from his plate. "It's what couples do, Sherlock…"

"Are we a couple?" Sherlock asked, looking into the dark, caring brown eyes of Dr. Watson.

"That depends, I suppose," the doctor replied. "In the hospital, you said you love me – "

"And that fact remains," Sherlock interrupted, his freckles becoming more evident in the ghost of a blush.

" – but I guess we never actually settled on what 'we are'," John finished. "I mean, for god's sake, we had a date a week ago and have barely spoken since!" he set his cutlery down. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes," he said bluntly. "But I need to know what you want from me… an occasional snog?" Sherlock winced at the term. "Or are we in a real relationship? Is this going somewhere?"

Sherlock Holmes sighed through his perfect, straight nose and set his own fork down on his nearly-full plate. "John, I don't know what you want me to say to you… You've been in relationships before, I am relying on you to – "

"What – wait," John interrupted sharply. "You've never… ever… been in a _relationship_ before?" his mind went blurry. "So… when we were in _that house_, what Scarlett said to you, about…"

"'Doesn't it ever get hard?'" Sherlock said in a falsetto voice, snarling at the memory.

"Then you're...?"

"Yes," those piercing grey-clue eyes fixed themselves onto John's. "Apparently Moriarty uses the fact as a feeble attempt to insult or discredit me," and he blew a breath containing fear, worry and disgust through steepled fingers. John felt suddenly out of place, as though Sherlock were a patient and he was back at that ghastly GPs he had worked at for a few months.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I…"

"Just, leave it, John," Sherlock got to his feet and dragged the stool back to the laptop. "It's not important," he double clicked on the touchpad.

"No, Sherlock," John said, walking around to stand near the man he loved. "It is important, to me," he reached out slowly, resting a tan, workers hand on the brittle, slender shoulder of the detective. It was tense, but did not shrug him off. "It's one of the many, wonderful, things that make you so special," and he planted a lingering kiss on the crown of Sherlock's curly head. As he inhaled the scent of the detective's zesty and smoky hair, he felt the man relax.

"I should have told you at the hospital," the seated man whispered.

"It doesn't change anything." John said into Sherlock's hair. His arms wrapped around the sitting consulting detective, who leaned against the ex-soldier's broad chest. "If anything, I love you even more now, my secret, amazing Sherlock…"

"I… I love you too, John," Sherlock whispered, afraid to raise it for fear the doctor would hear the crack of emotion that threatened to spill out of his throat, eyes and soul. _It is a terribly distracting, and exhausting business, being in love,_ he mused as he leaned against the embrace of Dr. Watson. _Perhaps even more so than being honest… _


	6. Chapter 6

At New Scotland Yard, William Yates was preparing to be moved to a prison cell as his case was gathered. Greg Lestrade watched him fasten his shoelaces.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked the young man. "You could be in prison for an extremely long time… maybe up to a year."

"My lawyer thinks I'm doing the right thing," Will replied.

"But you've seen the CCTV," Lestrade said, leaning on the doorframe. "You know what it looks like…"

"Looks like," Will repeated. He looked at the tall Detective Inspector and folded his thin arms. "Not actually. I would never do anything…" his voice cracked. "_Anything_ to hurt Anthony. He was my life," he picked up his jacket. "Did you know I was going to propose as soon as he graduated? We were going to be together forever," he looked at the ceiling, blinking hurriedly. Lestrade took out his handcuffs and clipped Will's wrists together.

"Come on, if you're sure," Lestrade lead the skinny man out of the station and towards the waiting prison van.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

By the time the case had disappeared from the newspapers, Sherlock and John had found something else to occupy their time.

"Now this is interesting," Sherlock said, pulling a photograph from a yellowing file. "They never discovered where the skin had got to, but perhaps…" he started flicking through the papers, John helping. They had finally, after months of bargaining, been allowed to go through some of the cold cases held at Scotland Yard. Everything from old break-ins, to grisly murders and mutilations had been reluctantly passed onto the boys at Baker Street for them to cast their increasingly expert eyes.

"Ah, it was the rope… the rope around her neck had torn the skin off," Sherlock said quietly to himself. It was a strange thing to hear coming from anyone else, but from the tall, handsome private detective, it was so normal as to almost be boring.

"What – right to her hips?" Doctor Watson took the medical report from Sherlock and scanned it.

"It was due to her being dragged behind the car," Sherlock explained, writing something on a notepad.

"Could this be connected to – "

"No, too many differing factors, unless more than two people were involved,"

"Is that possible?"

"It's not impossible…"

"And the fingernails wedged into the fabric of the car's seats?" John raised his eyebrows questioningly. Sherlock didn't smile, but his face softened a little.

"Let us find out," he said, and they both turned back to their work.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

John had treated Sherlock a little more gently since his confession over the table more than two weeks ago. He had not been in a relationship with a virgin since he was one himself, and he had become extremely aware of every touch he landed on Sherlock's pure, pristine flesh; every kiss that lingered longer than expected; every feeling that coursed through him, expressing itself in predictable, yet somehow embarrassing ways.

John Watson was a physical person – he appreciated the slender, feminine yet masculine form of his love – the lack of softness under his fingers was still surprising, yet he was enthralled with the secret, defined muscles of Sherlock's arms and chest – although they remained hidden, chaste, under his shirt. Before the confession, John had imagined stripped the detective of his deep purple cotton and inhaling the smoky yet zesty scent of his skin, but now, he was very aware of the need to take things slowly, and to let the inexperienced one drive the pace of their relationship. After all – neither of them were going anywhere.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

"I want him to die," she whispered in a ragged voice. "He's a monster… he… he lead my son done a winding path and then – " she pointed a shaking finger at the screen. "Look!"

"You believe Mr. Yates murdered your son," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question.

"Believe?!" she shrieked, "You can see the bastard pull the trigger!" she jabbed wildly at the wobbly picture. "He murdered my son!"

John Watson kept his eyes on the table. It had been Sherlock who had accepted Lestrade's invitation to speak to Anthony Clayton's mother. John hadn't been able to see the point.

_"Oh, come on," Sherlock had said, pulling on his scarf. "This case is still wide open and extremely interesting," he had smiled, pulling his friend out of the door. "Cold cases can only satisfy me for so long, John, you should know that by now…"_

"Would it make you happy," the calculating detective said to the grieving woman, "if Mr. Yates were to spend the rest of his life in prison?"

"Yes, it would," she spat back.

"Even if it is proved he had no choice in the matter?"

"What… what do you mean?" she stammered. Sherlock's eyes glittered.

"Just a hunch," he said, getting to his feet and leaving the extremely confused and shaken woman alone in Lestrade's office.

"What was that about?" John asked, jogging after the taller, more determined man. Unexpectedly, Sherlock stopped walking and John almost crashed into him. He took a deep breath.

"What would you say if I suggested Mr. Yates had no choice but to shoot his lover?" he said quietly. John frowned.

"I don't understand," he answered.

"Neither do I, just yet," the detective answered, beginning to walk again, "I need to check the cold case file again… There may be something we have overlooked," he shoved his pale hands into his coat pockets.

"Sherlock!" came a shout from behind them. They turned to see Lestrade walking quickly over to them. "Sherlock," he repeated as he came closer. "Any luck?"

"She's just watched her son get shot," Sherlock replied. "She is hardly a rational character witness."

"No, I mean, any luck with the whole thing?" the D.I's voice dropped. "They're pushing for a change of plea, you know… We can't put this off much longer."

"As I said before, Inspector, I don't expect you to," Sherlock snapped. "Imprison him if you will, and enjoy the humiliation of having him sue you when he is acquitted."

John watched Lestrade's face wrestle with the emotions of rage, annoyance and acceptance.

"Please, tell me you're on to something," he finally said.

"Lestrade, I am always on to something," Sherlock smirked, and put his hand on John's elbow to steer him away. John flinched, and Lestrade's eyebrows shot up, then came casually down. Sherlock stared into the space above Lestrade's head.

"Keep… keep me in the loop, ok?" Greg coughed, folding his arms.

"I… We will," Sherlock's smile returned slightly, and john allowed himself to be steered around to the doors before the skeletal hand of Sherlock Holmes retreated back into its homey pocket and all John could feel were the amused and interested eyes of Greg Lestrade burning into the back of his head.


	7. Chapter 7

London's traffic was, as usual, appalling. Finally sick of trying to dispel the cab smell from his nostrils, Sherlock suggested they walk the rest of the way to Baker Street. Winter was closing in properly – the wind bit into John's cheeks turning them a rosy red, while Sherlock became so pale John was sure he would disappear at any second.

"_God_, it's cold," John copied his friend and turned his collar up against the breeze. "Did you leave the heating up at the flat?"

"Heating?" Sherlock asked as if he'd never heard of such a thing.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," John smiled, despite himself. The sun was starting to set – the early nights were something the doctor loved about winter – cosy living rooms, log fires… _And finally, _he thought, _someone to share it with_…

Their shoes clicked and clopped down the deserted streets, and John considered reaching for Sherlock's hand that, for the moment, rested deep in the silk-lined pocket of his trademark coat. In his own, fleece-lined pockets, his fingers flexed slightly.

"We'll cut through here," Sherlock turned sharply on his heel and marched down an alleyway that cut neatly through the buildings, leading directly to Baker Street.

"Good thinking," Josh said, puffing out steam like an engine. "Anything to get back in the warm," they threaded their way past bins, puddles and piles of brick, weaving their way home. Sherlock had obviously taken the route before and strode off, his long legs propelling him away at a speed John was not able to keep up with.

Noticing he was alone, Sherlock stopped and waited a moment for the doctor to catch up. His cool eyes watched the sure-footed yet slowness of his friend's footsteps… John kept a hand slightly away from himself as a balance, yet avoided touching the walls and bins that cluttered the backstreets. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog howled.

"Sorry, thanks for waiting," John said, catching up. "Let's get going."

"Wait," Sherlock's deep baritone said from above. The ex-solider looked up to see those ordinary icy grey eyes staring down at him with unexpected warmth.

"Wait," the shorter man repeated, shifting his weight slightly.

"Just… wait," a spidery, long-fingered hand reached from the warmth of the pocket to gently brush two, three fingers against John's cool cheek. The touch left a burning trail on his skin, and a sudden rush of blood over the rest of his body. Sherlock's eyes were tracing his features – eyes, nose, mouth…

It was a cold, yet hot kiss. Their lips were numbed by the bite of the atmosphere, yet made uncomfortably warm by tongues dancing over each other. Sherlock let John flicker his tongue over his over lip, tasting the aniseed of the detective's mouth, and Sherlock responded, pushing back at the exploring muscle, using his surprisingly strong arms to pull his lover close to him.

Their clothes were in the way. John let out a small noise of anguish which was quickly destroyed by Sherlock's swollen, frantic lips pressing against him. He remembered all too clearly that Sherlock was inexperienced – he should wait, take things slowly – but the consulting detective had obviously been reading up on the subject , and was pulling the shorter man against himself to feel the pressure through John's trousers – a pressure he was unsure if he was capable of returning.

With a muffled thud, Sherlock's back connected with the harsh red bricks of the building, and John seized the moment to break away, gasping.

"Sherlock – back allies?" he grinned, licking his lower lip.

"It seemed sordidly appropriate," the detective breathed back, steam clouding the air between them.

"You don't have to… so fast – I mean, we can – "

"Oh, do shut up, John," Sherlock said, yanking his lover's shoulders upwards, connecting their lips again. John's hands pressed against the freezing wall, while the thinner, whiter hands of Sherlock Holmes began caressing John's backside, feeling the masculine, inviting curve of his buttocks. The doctor twitched as the feeling of another man's hands squeezed and stroked his sensitive skin. He gasped slightly, breaking the kiss as Sherlock's fingers ran the length of the gap between his buttocks.

"Sherlock!" he said indignantly.

"Problem, John?" Sherlock did not remove his teasing digits. "I am reliably informed that this is what men who are, to borrow your phrase, 'in a relationship', do…" he squeezed a cheek hard. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, I mean, I just thought…"

"You should take it slowly with poor little virginial me?" Sherlock chuckled a deep-throated laugh into John's neck, before kissing the skin of the doctor's throat deeply. "Believe me," he growled. "I am more than eager to make up for lost time," he sucked slightly on John's skin, feeling the doctor's knees wobble. "Especially if it is with you…"

"Oh, god, I love you," John inhaled the curls behind Sherlock's ear. "You just choose the worst places to cop a feel."

"Feel what?" Sherlock whispered. "Oh, you mean this?" and without warning he stroked with scratching fingernails over the taught material at John Watson's crotch. Pleasure and heat coursed through John and he ground his hips against Sherlock's thigh in desperation.

"You cock teaser," he hissed, stroking up the tall, thin man's leg with not-so-subtle intent. For a moment, Sherlock was unsure. He paid little attention to the unnecessary functions of his body, and had trouble recognising if he was erect. He was relieved, as John made a noise of surprise and interest at the presence and size of the bulge in Sherlock's skinny-fit suit trousers.

"Bloody _hell_, Sherlock," he said, actually looking down at the darkness in his hand. "Way to give a man something to worry about…" the detective gave a delicious chuckle and relaxed. John pressed himself against his love, feeling their physical states of arousal touch and sweep over – causing Sherlock to make uncharacteristic, tiny, moaning noises and John to break out in a sweat, despite the cold. Sherlock's hands pinged open his coat, allowing John to nestle closer. Their hands were in each other's hair now – pulling slightly and stroking ears as their cocks touched through the layers of material. John felt himself becoming uncomfortable, and knew he had to stop it.

"Sherlock," he said, pulling the dark curls backwards, to the annoyance of the detective. "We are going home. Right now," he glared at the put-out expression of the eager, yet virginal man.

"Straight home, then," Sherlock said, hurriedly buttoning his coat.

"I don't think there's anything 'straight' about this," John said, putting his hands in his pockets to try and relieve the pressure around his groin. Sherlock laughed.

"As they say, 'you can't even think straight'?" he quipped.

"Exactly," John said through gritted teeth. "Now, home. Before I bloody explode."

"Don't you dare," Sherlock said, pulling his lover along by the elbow. "If anything makes you explode, it certainly won't be this waiting," he picked up the pace to a gentle jog.

"Oh yeah?" John said, trying to concentrate on the thin route through the alleyway. "What will it be, then?"

Sherlock grinned a perfect-toothed, gorgeously beautiful grin. "Me," he replied.


	8. Chapter 8

The hallway was painted stark white and smelled of disinfectant. On the stairs sat a man who was almost wider with muscle than he was tall. He sat polishing a short, glinting blade. The squat man in glasses cowered near the door.

"Through to the lounge, if you please," the scarlet woman said, nudging Sherlock in the back with the barrel of the pistol. The detective stiffened at the touch but urged John forward with an elbow. The doctor was entering 'soldier mode' and was effortlessly taking in the weapons, surroundings and enemies. His eyes had become dull.

They walked into the back room, which was also painted white, with white leather sofas and no television. The only colour came from a red, glowing I.V that was plumbed into the crook of David Stafford's arm. The plastic line wound over the arm of the sofa into a bag, which was collecting steady drips of bright, red blood.

David was no longer plump. He had, over two days, lost a lot of weight. His skin looked yellow and there was an impressive bruise on the side of his head. As the footsteps entered the room, he looked up sharply, then dropped his head as if to hide.

"Don't worry, my sweet," the woman crooned as she indicated a sofa for Sherlock and John. The heavy-set man with the knife stood in the doorway. "They aren't buyers, rather fools who came to save you…" David looked up at the two men; one tall, one short; one dark, one blonde; one ageless, one aging and his eyes swam with tears.

"There, there," she leant over David and stroked his face with the back of her hand. He cringed and leaned away slightly. The blonde captor's blue eyes widened in disgust and she sharply slapped the teenager, leaving a neat line of welling blood where a manicured nail sliced his soft skin. As the blood trickled down, she squealed in delight.

"Look, my money maker!" she grabbed David's head and yanked it upwards, painfully. "How delightful," she simpered, and licked the slice of wound with a perfect, pink tongue.

"What is this? What are you doing?" John couldn't sit and watch this any longer. His doctor's eyes saw the unsterilized equipment, the bruise in David's inner elbow and the steady drip, drip of blood leaving his body.

"Ooo, you shouldn't ask things you might not like the answer to," she let go of the boy and rotated on a stiletto heel to face her new charges. "It might make you ever so cross!" she pouted a lipsticked mouth.

"You're selling blood," Sherlock said, looking her in the eye. John noticed how their irises were nearly identical.

"Correct, of course, clever boy," she tipped her head on one side and dropped her gun arm. "To whom?"

"Buyers in Taiwan," Sherlock shot back. "Fewer than 0.3% of people are born with AB- blood in Taiwan. Not to mention the flight tickets to Taipei in the sideboard and the unridden Taiwanese bicycles in what passes for a garden around here," he gestured with his chin, and the woman's face split into a grotesque smile.

"Excellent, Mr Holmes," she breathed. She sashayed over to the sofa and bent to push her face close to the detective's. "You know, I was once a client of Irene Adler's, poor thing," she blinked. "She told me _so much_ about you…"

"Delighted to hear it," Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on her eyes.

"Doesn't it ever get _hard?_" she touched his knee with a painted fingernail. John felt all the blood in his body rush to his face and fists. He wanted to hurt this woman. On the opposite sofa, David put his head in his hands and made a small noise. "Well, if not hard, it must become so _difficult_," she grinned. "and so very _wretched_ to deny yourself…" she leaned in close to the full lips of Sherlock Holmes, inhaling the detective's signature scent of lemon zest and smoky chemicals.

"Deny?" Sherlock kept his eyes, a scarily similar shade to the woman's, locked onto her expanding pupils. "Rise above, I call it."

"I would say, Mr. Holmes," she was much too close, "that you have not _risen_ in quite… some… time…"

"Stop it!" John Watson found himself on his feet, giving the woman a colossal shove, so she toppled in her heels onto the arm of the sofa, dropping her gun to save herself. Sherlock did not move – he appeared frozen to the spot.

"You _dare_ to touch me!" she shrieked. The knife-wielding man grabbed John by one arm, but John's army training had not left his mind completely and he grasped the offending arm back, twisting it and ducking to avoid the clumsy slash of the blade. One skilful punch to the temple and the thug collapsed onto the snowy carpet. There was a tell-tale click as the blonde woman picked up her gun, aiming it squarely at John Watson's chest.

"Cute, but not so smart," she said simply.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" John's knuckles were bleeding, he was shaking and sweating. Sherlock was shaking his head minutely behind the woman's back, David Stafford had gone grey with fright and blood loss, but John Watson was beyond caring.

Everything in this case had built up and combined. From the first disappearance to the dried, leathery corpse falling through the ceiling, now a young man being bled like a stuck pig in a hospital-esque house, all the fears and frustrations, seasoned with the lust and fright of losing Sherlock balled into a fat, hard rock of anger and irrationality. He was ready to throw himself into the path of the bullet, even if it meant never seeing…

_Oh, god, I couldn't, _his arms relaxed. _I couldn't say goodbye to you. Not now. Even though you'll never… I could never. _The gun-toting woman smiled as she watched the army doctor's body show his defeat.

"Now," she said softly. "Give me your phone," she held out her hand. John dropped the broken device into the soft palm. She threw it harshly away and it crunched against the wall, the glass front coming cleanly away from the battery pack.

"And sit. There," she nodded towards David who was shaking, head still in hands. John's heavy legs took him towards the leather sofa and he collapsed onto it. "Henry!" she shrieked. The squat, balding man inched into the room.

"Mistress?" he hissed.

"Watch these creatures," she spat. "If either of them displeases me, kill them."

"Yessss mistress," Henry gave a short bow, and stood staring at the boy and man, one of whom stared back.

"And as for you, Mr Holmes," she turned towards the statue-like detective, who looked blandly back. "You will come with me," and glancing meaningfully at the ceiling she grinned the hideous, lipsticked grin again.

Sherlock gave a slow, deliberate blink. "Oh, I don't think so," he said, and stood up. "In the time it will take Dr. Watson to overpower your Igor-like manservant, I will have taken from you everything you think you hold dear."

"Will you, my darling?" she pouted, pushing a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. "And how will you do that?"

Sherlock reached into his coat and drew out Dr. John Watson's service revolver, pointing it sharply under his own chin. "I will blow my head off," he said, and gave one of his own beautiful smiles.

*/*/*/*

"And that would be a grave shame, Mr Holmes," came a voice from the hallway. The people in the lounge turned in unison to see a slightly short, black-haired man with rectangular-rimmed glasses march into the room. He put his manicured hands into his suit trousers and cocked his head on one side. "We were hoping you would stay with us, at least for a while."

"Massster," hissed Henry, who cowered more at the sight of the new arrival.

"Out, Harry, we shall continue our discussions later," the man nodded towards the door. The heavy-set man inched out, bowing and sweating.

"Now," the raven-haired man said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Where were we?"

"Miss Green's boyfriend, I presume?" Sherlock said sarcastically, the barrel of the gun still touching his chin.

"Please, call me Alfie," the newcomer smiled. "Ah, Connie. She was hard work. It was all too easy to leech her of blood whilst she was in hospital, but as soon as she was let out, there was so much… sacrifice," he gritted his teeth. "All that visiting, assuming, changing prescriptions and finally ending it all."

"Why did you kill her?" John asked from the sofa. "Why not keep her hooked up, like David?" he smiled kindly at the teenager, who flinched.

Alfie grinned, showing bleached teeth. "Supply and demand, my dear doctor," he strolled over to Scarlett and took her gun from her. "If we require more blood than is in one person, I am afraid they must meet their end," he checked the gun over, passing it from hand to hand.

"Where are Mr Freidrich and Mrs Polichi?" Sherlock kept his icy eyes fixed onto Alfie. John's eyes flickered all over the room – the windows were reinforced; the front door was locked; Alfie was martial-arts trained, evident from the way he shifted his weight and held his hands still; Sherlock (_Sherlock…)_ was still pointing the service revolver into his own flesh… John felt a chill run down his back.

The revolver held only one bullet. If Sherlock fired to kill one of their captors, the other would retaliate with their own weapon. He would never shoot himself… would he? Why was he even threatening…?

"And why, Mr Holmes," Alfie said, looking up at the detective. "Are you jamming that unpleasant weapon under your ridiculous chin?"

"This was all too easy," Sherlock almost smiled. "The kidnappings in broad daylight? The car left at the scene? The drop of blood on the map?"

"We had to get you in, somehow," Alfie said modestly, handing Scarlett her gun back.

"And you fell for it, love," she pouted. "You wanted to tell us just how silly we'd been! Give us a good spanking and telling off," she smirked.

"Even though the real clue stared you in the face," Alfie blew a kiss at Scarlett. "Blood. Red, hot, wet blood…"

David Stafford squeaked from the end of the sofa. John Watson reached to pat his shoulder, but stopped as Scarlett's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Blood," agreed the tall, self-threatening detective. "The rarest blood type, buyers ready, all factors considered…" his eyes widened a fraction.

"Ah, has it just sunk in? The pointlessness of your resistance?" Alfie stepped towards Sherlock, his eyes unblinking behind their spectacles. "You will go with Scarlett, Sherlock Holmes. This," he waved a dismissive hand at the revolver. "Is pointless. I know that you truly do not wish to die," he smiled gently, and then winked at Scarlett who cocked her pistol and aimed it squarely at John Watson. "And I know your feelings for your friend will make you do the right thing," he stepped closer to the alabaster face of the taller man. "Rest in peace, assured that we will kill him, and that it won't be quick…"


	9. Chapter 9

_Where were we?_

The question seemed to have been asked hours ago. Darkness had eaten away at the remaining light until it consumed the city of London. The occupants of Baker Street did not bother to turn on their lights. That would have meant breaking apart.

"Is this alright?" John said, pulling Sherlock's belt off and flinging it onto the floor.

"Y – yes," Sherlock gasped slightly as his friend's fingers began unbuttoning his trousers. His own hands trembled, despite the warm closeness.

"You're shaking," John said gently, easing open the detective's flies. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No!" Sherlock said, gripping onto his friend's t-shirt front. "Don't you dare…"

"Just tell me if you – "

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled, pulling John closer for a crushing kiss. A few threads in the t-shirt tore noisily. "Oops," he said, breaking the kiss.

"I'll give you 'oops'," John growled, slipping a hand into Sherlock's trousers and stroking the length of Sherlock's cock gently. The detective sat up as though he'd been shot.

"Oh, god, John," he relaxed back down. "That's… that's certainly different when it's… someone else."

John let Sherlock get used to the sensation of being gently touched before increasing the pressure slightly, feeling the friction of the detective's briefs against his fingers. Sherlock squirmed slightly.

"Not unpleasant," he remarked. "Although, I think… I want…"

"Sherlock, you are not supposed to be analysing this," John said, shoving his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Then what am I supposed to – " Sherlock's mouth suddenly became a large 'O' of surprise and pleasure as John squeezed his shaft with a firm, unforgiving fist. "Oh, John," he breathed, pushing his pelvis upwards into John's hand again.

"God, I love you," the doctor said, kissing Sherlock's neck deeply, tasting the beginnings of sweat and heat. He couldn't believe he had Sherlock Holmes' cock in his hand, and was afraid of making eye contact with the thin, inexperienced man in case he lost it completely.

"I… too," Sherlock choked out as John began stroking a rhythm through his boxers. All reason leaving him completely, the gates to Sherlock's mind palace clanged shut and for once, Sherlock was left with only the immediate sensations to guide him. It was a peaceful, yet frightening way to be.

John reach across with his free hand and pinged open the buttons to Sherlock's too-tight, fitted shirt, revealing the subtly sculpted chest he had been dreaming about.

"You are so…" he struggled to think of a word he could apply to the impossible man, he looked at him with a twinge of fear in his eyes. "…beautiful," he decided on. "You are a beautiful man, Sherlock Holmes," he inhaled the smell of Sherlock's skin and it was as he had imagined – masculine and sharp with an undertone of cigarettes and chemicals that most people would have missed.

Sherlock's long fingers were tugging at John's t-shirt and John let go of Sherlock for a moment to shuck off the top and pause, suddenly feeling embarrassed again. The detective had never seen his tattoo, or either of the twin gunshot wounds in the one shoulder before, and the tiny scars covering his chest and arms suddenly seemed immensely damaging to look at.

"You have lived, John Watson," Sherlock said quietly, touching several scars with a careful index finger. "You have experienced life…" he circled the star-shaped bullet entrance wounds and pressed them briefly.

"And nearly death," John reminded him.

"Don't," Sherlock said, looking into his eyes. He reached up and pulled John on top of him so the doctor straddled his long, thin legs. Their chests pressed together in an intimate embrace. "I don't think about… not ever…"

"It wasn't that long ago," John said, stroking Sherlock's curling tendrils with coarse fingers. "You saved me," he whispered into the shell of the detective's ear. Sherlock shuddered slightly. "You, shirtless and gorgeous, fought your way out of hell, and dragged me out of there too…"

"You saved me, too," Sherlock said in a very un-Sherlock-like voice. "Before, when I… and the taxi driver…"

"We both kill to save each other," John kissed his love gently on the neck, feeling the downy hair on Sherlock's chest mingle with his own. "What a pair we make…" He tucked his knees up against the back of the sofa, and let his hands press against the thinner man's chest. "I would do it again, you know."

"I know you would," Sherlock said, unbuttoning John's jean button with a flick of his fingers. "And I would do the same," he threaded his skinny fingers into the denim, finding and grasping John's cock. John raised his hips so Sherlock could push his jeans down over his buttocks, over his raised legs… John stood haphazardly to kick them off completely, while Sherlock pushed his skinny-fit trousers and socks off completely, leaving only his open, purple shirt and black briefs covering his body. John paused for a moment, considering, before removing his own briefs and standing for the first time, completely naked in front of his friend, colleague, confidant and lover.

"John…" Sherlock said, his eyes darting madly over his lover's body, drinking him in. "You're so…"

"Oh, don't," John said, resuming straddling the staring man. "I'm just an old soldier with a body going to seed and a-" words left Dr. Watson as Sherlock grasped his cock with both hands and squeezed firmly.

"How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?" Sherlock snarled, beginning to move his hands rhythmically up and down. John gasped and clutched the leather on the back of the sofa with both hands. It was all too much.

Sherlock moved his hips against John's pelvis, keeping a rhythm going with his hands, using every bit of knowledge he could recall in his immediate mind to rub, stroke and slide over the smooth skin of the most intimate part of John Watson. He felt himself begin to lose control, and fought against the feeling, concentrating on keeping John making those noises of pleasure, gripping the sofa cushions to tightly they creaked and sighed Sherlock's name over and over…

"Sh… Sherlock, I'm… god, I'm…" sweat dripped onto Sherlock's chest from John's forehead, as the ex-soldier shuddered and grit his teeth to try and prevent the inevitable.

"Just… just… go on," Sherlock said, feeling his own pressure begging for release. Before he had finished speaking, John had exhaled sharply, pressing their heads together painfully as his cock became even stiffer in orgasm, shooting semen onto Sherlock's stomach in a display so gorgeously erotic that Sherlock shuddered and grabbed John's hand, shoving it unceremoniously into his black briefs. John understood and stroked once, twice on the impossible rigid organ before Sherlock came, adding to the mess over himself, and the two of them relaxed against the plush leather – John pressing his hot, damp chest against his love's, his mouth planting tiny kisses onto Sherlock's neck.

The world's only consulting detective stared into the middle distance, seeing stars dance before his eyes. The mind palace was closed. Only feelings remained.


	10. Chapter 10

John's trained, soldier's body woke up early as usual. The weak rays of the sun were cutting through the thin curtains as usual, and the sound of Mrs Hudson's vacuuming crept through the floorboards as usual. It was an ordinary day. Only there was something different about his room. He tried to wake up and turned his tired head to look at the unexpected thing in the bed with him.

A sleeping, peaceful Sherlock Holmes was breathing deeply and steadily, face-down into a pillow. In John's bed. The solder blinked to clear his vision and looked at the man who never normally slept. His sleep-tousled curls were parted unnaturally, and his thin arms were hiding; reaching under the pillow so his hands could touch. A near-invisible tuft of dark hair could be seen from the sleeping detective's underarm. John sighed and smiled at the unexpected, yet pleasant sight.

There had been some to-ing and fro-ing at the shower and bedroom doors the night previous, before John had suggested (through a fiery blush) that Sherlock might get some sleep if he tried a different bed. Sherlock, still ruffled and uneasy from the events on the sofa had agreed, and it seemed John's suggestion had worked. He had certainly been asleep for some time.

Memories of the previous evening came roaring back into John's mind like an express train, and he felt twin shivers of lust and embarrassment run over his skin. _Why are you embarrassed, John? _He asked himself. _Ashamed of being found out?_ A horrid worm of agreement stirred in his stomach. _Well, tough, _he told himself firmly, propping up on one elbow. _This is what I want, damnit._

"I am awake, you know," a thick voice came from somewhere within the pillow.

"Of course you are," sighed the doctor, shaking his head minutely.

"I was just resting my eyes," Sherlock turned slightly to free his nose from the cotton prison. "It helps me to think."

"You are allowed to sleep, you know," John said, looking down at Sherlock who was forcing himself to come to. "That's what human being do, to rest."

"Resting is like rehab - for quitters," Sherlock eased up on his elbows, stomach-down on the mattress. He looked up at John. "Good morning," he said.

"Morning," John replied, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock's sleepy blue eyes, ignoring for now the way the white sheets slipped off his broad, slender shoulders, and his subtly carved chest touched the mattress by a hair.

"I trust you slept well," the detective flipped himself over to sit up – legs folded neatly beneath him. John wondered if he was wearing anything under the covers… he had let a nervous Sherlock get ready in his own time, and had fallen asleep before the taller, unsure man had got into bed.

"Extremely," he grinned. "I was knackered after…" he stopped, unsure how to go on. "After the, er…"

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly. "I had noted that sexual exertion seems to tire you more quickly than… other activities. We must be aware of it from now on," he threw back the covers and got up, showing off the extremely-low fitting pyjama trousers he had been hiding. John was almost disappointed, and then reminded himself not to be so perverse. A thin trail of hair ran from Sherlock's navel and disappeared into his trouser band.

"Fr – from now on?" John's voice said without him realising it. "You mean..?"

"If by that articulate explosion you mean to ask 'shall we continue to explore our relationship sexually', then, yes, I think we shall have to," Sherlock said, hand on the doorknob. "Especially if you want me to have more sleep," he winked and walked smartly out of the door.

_Was that… flirting? _John's mouth hung open slightly, and he allowed himself a grin before dressing and heading into the lounge.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

"So, any connection?" John set a cup of steaming tea down next to Sherlock's laptop.

"Mm? Thanks… No, despite Mycroft's sexing up of this case, there appears to be very little information about it…" newspaper clippings and scans flickered over the screen as the consulting detective picked up the mug. "Still, the coincidence is so profound that it cannot be ignored."

"What did he do, this Mr..?"

"Mr. Andrew Gold," Sherlock finished, clicking a link with apparent distaste. "He worked for a publishing agency, as did his wife."

"Ah, so not an international spy or anything?"

"No, but neither is Mr. Yates. A student training to work in translation and a publishing agent. Not exactly similar fields, however…" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "We need to see what Mr. Yates was reading before he committed the murder."

"Oh, God, not books again," John put his head in his hands, remembering the Chinese Smugglers case with a sickening dread.

"Books? Unlikely," Sherlock had begun to text. "Manuscripts – loose papers, letters… and it will be recent – top of the pile, next to the bed, that sort of thing."

"More reading," John said, taking the empty mugs away. "Good job it's a hobby of mine."

"You like reading," Sherlock waved a hand at the overflowing bookshelves of 221B. "Think of this as a treat."

"I'll try," John said ruefully, picking up his coat and hunting for the keys to the flat. Last night was starting to seem a long time ago.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

William Yates' flat was average 'student digs', as John put it. On the third and top floor, there was a central kitchen with a grease-stained sofa and then four bedrooms leading off a long corridor. Will's bedroom was at the end of the corridor, next to the boiler room.

"Couldn't believe it when I heard," the landlord fiddled with a huge set of identical-looking keys. Sherlock clearly knew which one opened the door, but kept quiet. "Little Will… looked like he's never hurt a fly, always studying of with Anthony, of course, thought they were a lovely couple, but it just goes to show…" he found the key and clicked the door open. It smelled of pot noodles. "Well, let me know when you're done, Inspector Lestrade," the landlord nodded at Sherlock and headed for the kitchen.

"Lestrade?" John said quietly as they walked into the tiny room.

"He's well aware of the dangers of leaving his identity cards within reach," Sherlock said, heading for the desk.

"If he catches you," John started.

"He'll agree with my summation of his stupidity, now help me with this," Sherlock picked up a pile of papers and began flipping through the pages.

"It's all Dutch to me," John said attempting and failing to joke.

"French," Sherlock said, missing the jest. "Translated fiction, as far as I can tell…"

"You don't speak French?"

"Do you?" It was a fair point, but one that John chose to ignore. He picked up the second paper pile and peeled a few pages back.

"This is in English, Sherlock, look," he handed over the stapled pages. The detective sat on the unmade bed and glanced at the booklet John handed him.

"Fiction," he said briefly, handing it back. "Unlikely to be helpful…"

"Still, it's the only thing here in English," John said, folding it up and tucking it into his inside jacket pocket. "Might be worth a read?"

"If you insist," Sherlock said, folding up a few pages from the French pile and pocketing them similarly. "I'd rather use my time to translate these… lots of code here, measurements, graph data…" he tore a paper in half and pocketed it. "Just what I think we need."

"What are we looking for exactly?" John asked again.

"I think Mr. Yates was convinced to kill his lover from an outside source. I suspected television or music at first, but the case of Mr. Gold has narrowed my suspicions onto literature… He read something that convinced him to kill Mr. Clayton," he looked into John earnest brown eyes. "And we have to find it before someone else does. Words have always been weapons, but this… these words are deadly," he grinned, loving the thrill of deduction.

"You love it, don't you?" John said, nearly dropping his paper pile.

"Don't you?" Sherlock said, setting the pages down and opening a book.

"I can't deny it's exciting, but what I most enjoy is seeing _you_ enjoy yourself so much!" John laughed. "It's like a kink."

"Kink?" Sherlock frowned until he found the correct mental-file to supply him with the meaning to this unexpected word. "Well, perhaps there is some sort of unexplored – "

"Oh, god, Sherlock I wasn't being serious!" John scratched his head worriedly.

"Neither was I!" Sherlock grinned, flashing perfect teeth. "Honestly, John Watson… I didn't spend literally hours researching jokes and flirting for you to miss when I execute it!"

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

The piles of paper stayed on Will's desk and the two men went home. Sherlock text Lestrade to say that nothing had been found of interest at Mr. Yates' flat, and to arrange a time for the D.I to collect his stolen I.D.

"You know stealing is wrong, don't you?" John said as he opened the door to 221B.

"Of course," Sherlock said, heading for the kitchen where he peered inside the slow cooker. John was tempted to ask what was inside it, but thought better of it. He went over and flicked the T.V on absent-mindedly. It blared out soundlessly, and he pulled the crumpled papers from inside his jacket pocket and smoothed them out on the dining table.

"Have we got any treacle?" Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen.

"Not if it's going in the slow cooker, no…" John said, looking from the French translation to the English. It made his brain hurt, so he decided to look at it later. The television flickered and make him look up.

The image on the screen showed a helicopter-shot video of a house surrounded by police cars. Out of habit, John reached for the remote and turned the volume up.

"… no memory of committing the crime! A defence, which, according to the prosecution will do little against the overwhelming evidence that Mrs. Stravinsky did, in fact, murder her husband. We go now to our resident psychologist Dr. Dawn Beverly. Dr. Beverly…" the newsreader swivelled in her chair to talk to the doctor, and John opened his mouth to call Sherlock.

"Ah, so there's been another one," the detective was already leaning over John's chair. "Excellent!"

"A man is dead, Sherlock," John said gently.

"Details," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "A cold case is one thing, but this is fresh!" His phone went **ding.** "That'll be Lestrade," Sherlock took his phone back out and smiled. "Wants us to go down now. Coming?"

"We've just got in!" John wailed, head in hands. "Give us a minute for Christssake…"

"Come on, John, the case!" Sherlock was already pulling his coat back on, still warm from moments ago.

"Sod the case," John muttered darkly, getting to his feet anyway. _Honestly, if it's not one thing… _he briefly imaged the night in he and Sherlock could have had if this latest murder hadn't happened. _Jesus, I've pissed someone off in a previous life, _he thought, locking the door behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

The piles of paper stayed on Will's desk and the two men went home. Sherlock text Lestrade to say that nothing had been found of interest at Mr. Yates' flat, and to arrange a time for the D.I to collect his stolen I.D.

"You know stealing is wrong, don't you?" John said as he opened the door to 221B.

"Of course," Sherlock said, heading for the kitchen where he peered inside the slow cooker. John was tempted to ask what was inside it, but thought better of it. He went over and flicked the T.V on absent-mindedly. It blared out soundlessly, and he pulled the crumpled papers from inside his jacket pocket and smoothed them out on the dining table.

"Have we got any treacle?" Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen.

"Not if it's going in the slow cooker, no…" John said, looking from the French translation to the English. It made his brain hurt, so he decided to look at it later. The television flickered and make him look up.

The image on the screen showed a helicopter-shot video of a house surrounded by police cars. Out of habit, John reached for the remote and turned the volume up.

"… no memory of committing the crime! A defence, which, according to the prosecution will do little against the overwhelming evidence that Mrs. Stravinsky did, in fact, murder her husband. We go now to our resident psychologist Dr. Dawn Beverly. Dr. Beverly…" the newsreader swivelled in her chair to talk to the doctor, and John opened his mouth to call Sherlock.

"Ah, so there's been another one," the detective was already leaning over John's chair. "Excellent!"

"A man is dead, Sherlock," John said gently.

"Details," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "A cold case is one thing, but this is fresh!" His phone went **ding.** "That'll be Lestrade," Sherlock took his phone back out and smiled. "Wants us to go down now. Coming?"

"We've just got in!" John wailed, head in hands. "Give us a minute for Christssake…"

"Come on, John, the case!" Sherlock was already pulling his coat back on, still warm from moments ago.

"Sod the case," John muttered darkly, getting to his feet anyway. _Honestly, if it's not one thing… _he briefly imaged the night in he and Sherlock could have had if this latest murder hadn't happened. _Jesus, I've pissed someone off in a previous life, _he thought, locking the door behind him.

"Slight problem," Lestrade said after listening to the theory Sherlock was developing about the murderers reading something that hypnotised them into killing. "This latest one? Mrs. Stravinsky? She can't read."

"What?" spat Sherlock, twisting his face up unattractively. "Who can't read?"

"Well, she couldn't," said Lestrade. "She can't. We've had to read all the arrest forms to her. She's extremely embarrassed – can't really understand what's happened yet, just like Will. So, sorry, Sherlock, the reading thing's a no go."

John had never seen the detective's face grow so dark. "Impossible," Sherlock said. "It is the _only_ connection!"

"Except for this one. Face it, Sherlock," and Lestrade smirked, "you were wrong."

"Oh, for godssake," Sherlock got out of the chair and started pacing around the small glass room.

"How, er, how did she kill her husband?" John pulled his chair closer to Lestrade's desk.

"Same as before – gunshot," Greg said, pushing a few grisly photographs towards Doctor Watson. A slender man with soft brown hair was pictured with half of his head missing; blood splattered over the rose-patterned carpet.

"Where did she get the gun?" John asked, flipping through the images. "Looks like an experienced shot."

"I don't know about experienced, but she can't, or won't tell us where she got the weapon," Lestrade scratched his head and shrugged. "If we can get a confession out of her, we've been ordered to get a court date settled as soon as possible."

"I'm not surprised," John said. "These murders aren't doing much for the local statistics, are they?"

"No," sighed the D.I, running a hand over his tired face. "Look, guys, I appreciate your help, but really, if there's no connection, these cases need burying and settling and getting out of the way."

"Don't you _get it_?" Sherlock snapped from the door. "Someone is _telling _these people to commit these crimes – and they will keep on doing it until someone stops them!"

"There's no proof!" Lestrade said, banging his empty coffee cup on the desk.

"I will find proof!" Sherlock snarled, wringing his hands.

"Then hurry up and get out of here and start looking!" Lestrade roared back. They glared at each other for several seconds, before the corner of Greg's mouth twitched and he sat back down. "And keep me in the loop, this time," he said, folding his arms and smiling.

Sherlock snorted and let himself out of the door. John raised his eyebrows and nodded at the Detective Inspector, starting to rise out of his chair.

"Er, John," Greg said, running his hands over his thinning hair. "Please, don't think anything of this, but are… Are you and..."

"What?" John said, keeping his face the straightest it had ever been.

"Well, put it this way, have I won twenty quid off Anderson?" he grinned. John frowned and made a determined effort to look confused. "Come on," Greg said, leaning forward. "Put me out of my misery, I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."

"Apart from Anderson," John said, too quickly.

"Well I can do without the money," Greg smiled gently. "It's nice to see him happy, though."

"Happy?" John laughed. "He does nothing but torment you," he shoved his hands into his pockets, afraid of where the conversation was going.

"Perhaps," the detective said, nodding in agreement. "But trust me, John. I've known Sherlock for a long time – back when he was a junkie, turning up in my cells twice a week. And he's never changed so much as he has in the time he's had you."

John listened to Greg's words, seeing in his mind the image on an even thinner, dirtier Sherlock sitting hunched on a cell bed, the track marks on his arms more pronounced, his eyes empty and hollow.

"Did he… How did he clean up?" John said quietly.

"I had a case file on my desk one day, and lead him in to give him a bollocking about stealing, and he solved the case just by glancing at the file," Greg smiled at the memory. "I guess I got curious, because I gave him another and another until one day he walked in and asked to be taken to the hospital for a blood test," Lestrade sighed. "He was clean. Completely. He got lucky, and I think he realised that. Two days later he was waiting for me in the lobby wearing a suit that Mycroft had bought him."

"And he's been the same since?"

"Went completely cold-turkey," Greg nodded. "He was a bastard to everybody for about a year, and when the withdrawal symptoms stopped he started wearing that coat. Bought it with the money the Yard gave him for helping out," the D.I leaned back in the chair. "I honestly think that was the first thing he had ever bought himself that wasn't harmful."

"And the scarf?" John asked despite himself.

"Now that I can't explain," Greg said, shaking his head. "Turned up with it one day and never had it off since. Must have bought it as some sort of treat," the D.I's eyes flickered towards the door. "He'll be waiting for you," he said pointedly.

"Sure," John said, heading for the exit. "And… thanks, Greg, I feel better for knowing that about him."

"You sure I haven't put you off?"

"Ha," John laughed. "You'll have to try harder than that," and smirking at the look on Lestrade's face, John left the office and met Sherlock in the lobby.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock asked when he saw John coming down the steps.

"Lestrade wanted a word," he explained.

"Oh?"

"Telling me about your… youthful exploits," John said as they got outside. He glanced up and saw Sherlock's jaw was set.

"And?" the detective said sharply, looking straight ahead.

"And I think you're a wonderful man," John said, resisting the urge to link arms with his friend. "It'll take more than a few years of drugs and thefts to put me off," he saw Sherlock visibly relax.

"Thank you, John," he said quietly. "It is not a part of my life I intended to share with you, however… I do not wish that you had not heard about it."

"I want to know everything about you, but you're just so mysterious," John chuckled as they walked to a cab. "You don't have to worry about telling me things."

"In that case," Sherlock put his hand on his friend's arm and spun him slightly to they were nose to nose. "I want to tell you that forever is not long enough for me to be with you," he said so hurriedly that John nearly missed it.

"God, I love you," the shorter man grinned.

"I love you too," Sherlock breathed and leaned in, unexpectedly yet beautifully for a public-view, enveloping kiss in full view of New Scotland Yard. John was positive that he could hear Greg Lestrade applauding from the first floor and put his hand on Sherlock's back side and squeezed briefly.

_After all_, he thought as the kiss ended, _don't want there to be any dispute in that bet with Anderson!_


	12. Chapter 12

The Stravinsky house was roped off with police tape and surrounded by photographers. Sherlock refused to get out of the car.

"They'll mention that bloody hat again," he growled, looking out of the tinted windows.

"You said you didn't mind the hat," John said, raising his eyebrows.

"I grow increasingly tired of it," Sherlock said, squinting at the wandering press, who were busy attempting to get information out of the guarding police officers. "We'll take a different route," and handing the driver Mycroft's expenses card, he exited the cab on the side facing away from the house. John followed, mystified as to what his friend's plan was.

Keeping his coat collar down, Sherlock ducked into a garden and edged down the passageway between the houses. John followed, checking behind him at the press, who were still facing the other way.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?" he hissed.

"Improvising," Sherlock replied, reaching up to take hold of the wooden gate. With surprising athleticism, he pulled himself over it and disappeared over the other side. John looked up despondently. He couldn't even reach the top of the gate. Then there was a click and the gate swung open.

"Well?" Sherlock's annoyed face peered through the gap. "Come on!" he vanished again. John rolled his eyes and went through the gate, putting it on the latch behind him. The garden was unkempt, with Sherlock Holmes climbing the fence into the neighbouring garden. "John, keep up!" he shouted, hoisting himself over.

John climbed over the fence and the two of them continued in this fashion – pausing only to check for splinters until they came to the end of the street. Here, Sherlock calmly crossed the road, looking down the hill at the unknowing press, and climbed a wall to jump into the first garden on the other side of the road.

"This is so illegal," John puffed, feeling muscles he had not used in some time starting to strain.

"Stop complaining and we'd be there by now," Sherlock said, grabbing hold of John's jacket to help him over a surprisingly high fence. "I thought soldiers were meant to be fit?"

"Ex-soldier," John said, sprinting towards the last fence. "I'm an old man, now…" and there was a ripping noise as a nail took hold of Doctor Watson's jeans and refused to let go. "Oh, fantastic," John said, looking at the tear in his inside leg. "There goes another load of clothes…"

Sherlock ignored him and propelled himself over the final fence. "Lestrade's man is inside," he called over his shoulder. The doctor gave up examining his ruined jeans and took the last fence. _I just hope we don't get arrested for trespassing first,_ he thought ruefully.

A short conversation with a visible-irritated detective let Sherlock and John into the Stravinsky house. The bloodstain had dried to brown on the carpet, but Sherlock walked straight past it and headed for the upper floor.

"Where are we going?"

"The study, John, obviously," the consulting detective said shortly, loosening his scarf a little. "And after that, perhaps the bedroom." It was only a plan for their work, and they were strolling around a dead man's house, but John felt his inside flutter a little as Sherlock's baritone rolled out the word 'bedroom'.

The study was surprisingly large – Leon Stravinsky clearly adored tidiness and order – there were labels adorning every box file and envelope, along with neatly stacked piles on his desk.

"University lecturer," Sherlock said, answering john's unasked question. He pointed at a small collection of photographs showing graduations and alumni parties. "These are his student's essays," he picked up a piece of paper from the pile and rolled his eyes. "Third," he muttered, replacing it.

"So, he was reading too," John said, looking around the spotless office. "But he didn't murder anyone, he's the one who got killed…"

"Please desist from stating the obvious, John," Sherlock said, opening the desk drawers. "Reading is the key, but she can't read, so _how_ did the idea get into her head?"

"Would you mind explaining that?" John said, flicking through the think pile of essays. "How can an idea get into someone's head to kill someone?"

"Not just anyone," Sherlock snapped. "Think about it, John, what did all the victims have in common?"

"They… er…"

"Uh, never mind," the detective stood and looked out of the curtained window at the milling photographers.

"They were all adults," John started lamely. "They all were academics, or university graduates at any rate," he paused, trying to remember. "They… Oh, god, I don't know," the doctor sat in the small office chair. "This is your forte, not mine."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, eyes closed, finger-tips at his temples. "And I am forced to reach the same conclusions as you – there is nothing to link them," he opened his icy blue eyes. "These killings are random – too random to chase, perhaps."

"So you're giving up?" John's mouth dropped open, guppy-like.

"For the moment, it would seem to be the best," Sherlock said slowly, flicking his eyes to John's. "I can wait for the next murder, for another piece of the puzzle –"

"No," John said, folding his arms. "We stop and solve this now or we tell Lestrade it's over."

"Then we solve this now," the taller man said, scowling. He would rather chew his own legs off than admit defeat to Lestrade.

"Right, so Yvette Stravinsky can't read – audio books?" John said, thinking out loud.

"Possible, but highly unlikely," Sherlock said. "Audio presents a different form of suggestion and often sleep is needed to –"

"Could her husband have read something to her?" the doctor interrupted.

"He didn't kill anyone," Sherlock pointed out.

"Maybe it didn't work on him?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply and shook his head. John wondered if he was getting a headache.

"Need some paracetamol?" he asked.

"Hm? No, I just need to concentrate…"

John rooted in his jacket pocket. "How about one of these?" he held out his hand, in which lay a single, slightly crumpled nicotine patch. Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared at the beige patch – which seemed to become more than a simple thinking aid – it was a sign that John had been thinking about him and wanted him to stay sharp, stay safe and be at his best. It was like giving water to an athlete. The detective's face twitched and then split into a full, teeth-baring grin that made John laugh nervously.

"That's… thank you," Sherlock said, taking the patch, his cool fingers brushing John's palm deliberately. It tickled.

"No problem," the doctor said, doing his trademark sideways smile. There was an awkward silence as Sherlock peeled off the plastic barrier and slapped the thinking-aid onto his forearm. It made an ugly contrast with his porcelain skin.

"Better?" John asked, staring at the arm, which flexed before being hidden again by sleeves.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, brushing imaginary dirt from his coat. "Bedroom?"

"I – er, what?" John's eyebrows rose.

Sherlock kept a straight face. "The bedroom. We should investigate. In the bedroom."

"Oh, right," John got to his feet. "You mean go… check out what's there?"

"Conduct a thorough investigation," Sherlock said, looking down his nose at his friend.

"Just… how thorough?" John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, though the room was warm.

"Oh, I'm sure I would need to explore…" Sherlock reached out and pushed a hair back on his friend's head, "…every, single area open to me."

"You realise we're in a dead man's house, don't you?" John said, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, stepping closer to close the gap between them. "Does that upset you?"

"Not really, I just thought it needed mentioning…"

"Then… bedroom?"

"Absolutely," John said without a trace of irony, and lead the way down the hall towards the master bedroom. Sherlock, unseen by his hurrying friend, glanced quickly at the desk of papers and frowned.

_ A risk, certainly_, he thought as he followed. _However, one I must admit I am willing to make…_ and forcing a convincing smile at Doctor Watson, they began the thorough and chaste search of the bedroom.

*/*/*/*

John Watson did not pride himself on being the most observant person in the world (who could, when one spent most of the time in the company of Sherlock Holmes), but he was sure he could detect a slight shift in the consulting detective's mood as they rode home in silence. Sherlock's large, pale hand had swallowed his smaller, browner one, and Sherlock's thumb was absently stroking John's knuckles as the dark-haired man stared out of the window. John was almost convinced that his friend looked… sad.

"Are you ok?" he chanced asking as they got closer to Baker Street. Sherlock blinked and looked at the floor of the cab before smiling slightly.

"Yes, John, I am," he said, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"Are you worried about the case?" the doctor probed. Sherlock licked his lower lip and returned to staring out of the window.

"No," he replied. "I am confident in its resolution…" Sherlock trailed off, still holding John's hand. The doctor decided to stay quiet and look straight ahead until the cab pulled into the familiar street. They let themselves in and Sherlock crossed the room straight to the window and stood, still wearing his coat and scarf.

John considered ignoring this behaviour as you would a petulant child, but instead found himself walking straight to the man he loved and wrapping his arms around his slender waist. Sherlock flinched and stiffened at the initial touch, then relaxed completely – leaning slightly against John's greater weight and sighing as the doctor adjusted his stance to hold his love upright.

"What's up, hm?" John said into Sherlock's coat. "You seem a bit… lost. Sure, we didn't find anything, but you'll figure something out, you always do."

"What if I can't, John?" Sherlock said softly, reaching behind him to touch his friend with spidery fingers. "What if this is another one? An unsolvable mystery… What would people think?"

"I won't blog about this one," John said, smiling. He stepped forwards, encouraging Sherlock to support his own weight again. The detective turned slightly, so the dimming light cast his elegant face into an artistic profile.

"And… and what about you?" he said. "What would you think?"

"Me?" John said, letting one of his arms drop by his side. "What would I think?"

"If I couldn't solve this," Sherlock said slowly. "If… if I wasn't as brilliant as you think. If I was only half the detective I want to be," the taller man stared straight into John's eyes, and the ex-soldier held the gaze steadily.

"It would not change anything I already think about you," he answered. "I'll still think you're the most brilliant man I'll ever know, and by far the cleverest," he smiled up at the worried face of Sherlock Holmes. "And I love you, you moron," he grinned.

Sherlock smiled and wrapped his long arms around John in an enveloping, surprisingly-strong gripping hug. John's breathing was slightly constricted but he allowed himself to be squeezed, his eyes lighting up as the first streetlight glowed into life outside the window. Sherlock caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. He looked at peace holding the man he loved, and yet his eyes were filled with icy concern, worry and loss.

_I'm so sorry,_ he mouthed silently to his own reflection. _Forgive me_, he whispered soundlessly, before easing himself away from his own cold eyes and towards the warm brown irises of John. He dipped his head for a kiss. It was going to be a special night.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock had to admit that John was a thorough man. Whether washing dishes, folding his clothes or attempting to tidy the flat, everything was done with method and rigour. So it was unsurprising that since their first foray into sexual exploration on the sofa, John had taken possession of a number of items he deemed 'important' for further activities. Sherlock had his doubts of the claims made on the back of some of the packaging, but had to admit that when John's stroked his erection with a well-lubricated hand, it certainly made a difference.

"J- - ," Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he made a coughing noise. His hands gripped the sheets covering John's bed.

"It's ok," John said, leaning over the taller man – one hand bearing his weight on the mattress. "Do you want me to –"

"Again," Sherlock gasped. "Now," he glared at his friend's face above him, hating the feeling of his nakedness, hating the fact that John's eyes had widened so dramatically when the detective had removed his black boxer-briefs, hating that the grey scars of his former drug-habit were plainly visible, along with those ugly, criss-crossing lines of self-abuse on his arms. He hated the fact that John could coax these primal, animalistic noises and reactions out of him. He hated the need coursing through his veins, and hated the way he wanted to tell John exactly what to do to him.

But he loved… oh, he loved the sensation of being touched – the intimacy of another's eyes looking into his and showing nothing but acceptance and affection. He loved the pleasure John was sending rippling over his skin – an organ he had previously paid little attention to. He loved that it was John and only John who had treated him and touched him in this way… glorious.

He reached up and pulled John's head down so their mouths connected in a searching, probing, deep kiss. Their bodies touched suddenly, then John relaxed and let his weight fall gently onto Sherlock's chest.

"What… what would you like...?" John breathed into Sherlock's neck, inhaling the scent of washed shirt and smoke. Sherlock's hands were roaming over John's back, scratching slightly at the flesh, stroking over the muscles and pressing at the spine.

"Hm," Sherlock replied, "I think I would like –" and without warning he gripped John's arms and rolled him over so the taller man was now lying atop the shorter. " – to be on top of you," his eyes sparkled. John laughed nervously – Sherlock looked incredibly tall, and not a little threatening from that angle.

"Sh… Sherlock, I," he began before the detective leant in and began kissing John's neck in a way that made the doctor temporarily incapable of speech. "Oh god," he managed to splutter, turning his head so Sherlock could better get to that half-ticklish, half-sensual area at the corner of his jaw. John could feel Sherlock's erection pressing achingly close to his own, and he shifted his pelvis experimentally. Sherlock froze, lips just brushing his lover's skin.

"Sorry," John said, trying to turn his head before having it nudged back into place by Sherlock's jaw.

"Unexpected, that's all," Sherlock rumbled into his ear. "Please, continue," and he pressed his groin against the doctor's, feeling that returning pressure. He felt John's hands – testing at first, then becoming increasingly bold, trace their way down his body – feeling the way his waist dipped slightly, and widened into a broad back. John's medically-trained hands felt down Sherlock's spine from his neck down to his coccyx – which made the consulting detective shiver and grind his hips again against John's.

"Is this ok?" John whispered, stroking Sherlock's buttocks and letting a curious index finger dip in and out of the soft cleft at the base of his spine.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, unable to say anything else. How could he put into words the feeling of need he had for John to touch every part of him, inside and out?

John reached behind his head for the bedside drawer and brought his hands down again, this time with a gloss of lubricant on his fingers, and resumed his exploration of Sherlock's backside. The careful, medical man felt Sherlock's cock twitch as he stroked over the most secret part of the man. Sherlock paused in his kissing and simple stared into the middle distance, concentrating on his sense of touch as John stroked in ever-decreasing circles, before pressing, briefly, inside him.

Sherlock's eyes widened so far John was sure they were going to drop out of his head. Then, the dark-haired man grinned and slipped his pale arm down to slot between their bodies, shifting slightly to avoid cutting off his circulation, and took a tentative, inexperienced hold of John's cock, squeezing hard, feeling the stiffening resistance. As they lay, Sherlock's head rested on top of John's to make up for their height differences. John kissed Sherlock's collarbone and inhaled his skin again. He wanted to consume Sherlock, eat him, and devour him completely.

"Touch me," Sherlock said so quietly John almost missed it. The sandy-haired man complied, pushing further inside Sherlock with a finger that was gripped by strong, fluttering muscles. He struggled to keep his mind on being gentle and compassionate as Sherlock moved his hands with researched expertise over his cock – he gave a tiny thrust into the detective's hand and received a tiny slap on the cheek for his trouble.

"That's my job," Sherlock hissed. "Keep yourself under control," and pulling away from John's exploring digits, Sherlock slipped down the bed and began kissing John's abdomen lightly, feeling each ticklish clench.

John daren't look at what Sherlock was doing to him. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, feeling Sherlock's longish hair brushing his skin, and his cock still held in his friend's hand. He knew what was coming, why Sherlock's sensual mouth was getting closer to his groin, but he wouldn't let himself believe it until heat wrapped itself around the head of his cock – Sherlock's mouth covering him further and further – impossibly far for someone… for _Sherlock_…

The moans of pleasure John was making were music to Sherlock's ears. He had never done this before, but he was a man too, and guessed what would feel good. Though his taste-buds had long since been wrecked by cigarettes, chemicals and that time he tried to beat a fire-eater at his own game, his tongue could still feel sensation and swirled around the head of John's cock whilst keeping a steady rhythm of ducking his head and sucking his cheeks going.

"Sherlock," John said, breathing hard, "I can't… don't want to…" Sherlock took his mouth away from John and looked him in the eye.

"You'll do as I want you to, John Watson," he said menacingly. "And I want you to come. With me," the tall, slender man dragged himself up the bed and took the slick member of his friend into his hand. "Now you," he said. John grasped Sherlock's throbbing penis but kept his hand still. "And now," Sherlock whispered, "we will come… together," and he started to work his hand, fast and hard. John bit his lower lip and reciprocated, sure he could somehow trick Sherlock into orgasm first, but the intensity of Sherlock's gaze, the feel of their mutual pleasure and the tell-tale twitch of his lover's pleasure peak was too much. As Sherlock had wanted, as Sherlock had needed, they came in joint orgasm – John almost biting his lover's shoulder and Sherlock cricking his neck as the force of their gratification washed over them.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

John slept. Sherlock watched the steady rise and fall of his chest against the moonlight. It was a good, consistent point of focus.

"John," Sherlock whispered, unheard to the sleeping man. "I love you. I have loved you for so long, and you helped me realise it. I love being with you both intimately and in the bonds of friendship. And I am so, so sorry for what I am about to do," Sherlock planted a quick kiss on John's cheek before slipping out of the bed and through to the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

John awoke the next morning and felt a wash of disappointment at the empty space beside him. He had fantasised about finding another snugly, sleepy Sherlock next to him. One he could cover in kisses and hold close before serving breakfast in bed. No such luck. By the feel of the sheets, Sherlock had been gone most of the night. The doctor sighed and rolled onto his back, staring at the aertex ceiling.

_He hardly sleeps, remember? _He told himself. _Probably off destroying something in the kitchen…_ rolling his eyes at the thought, John swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his woollen dressing down and slumped into the lounge. Sherlock was there, at the table, writing something on the laptop.

"'Morning," John said, suppressing a yawn. "Did you sleep last night?"

"Mm," came the negative reply. Sherlock had not looked up from the screen yet. John felt a little stupid, bare-footed and unwashed in front of the immaculately-suited and well-groomed detective.

"Well, I'm going to make some breakfast," he said to fill the silence. "Want anything? Tea?"

"Can't," Sherlock said, snapping the laptop lid shut. "I'm going to see Mycroft."

"Oh," John replied. "Do… Do you want me to come?"

"No," Sherlock said, picking up his suit jacket and threading his arms through it. He looked at himself in the mirror and adjusted his lapels.

"Right…" the kettle had boiled but John hardly noticed. Despite the foul mood he was obviously in, Sherlock was still unbelievably handsome in a suit. "Well, do you know when you'll be back?"

"No," came the second negative reply. Sherlock had his coat and scarf on now and was stuffing his phone and keys into the inside pockets. He glanced out of the window and his mouth twitched slightly. "He's here," he said, offering information for the first time, whilst heading for the door.

"Um, bye?" John said, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock nodded once and slammed the door behind him. The doctor heard his size-eleven footsteps trot down the stairs and exit into the street. Against his better judgement, he headed to the window and watched Sherlock's tousled-black hair duck into a silver Jaguar and be swiftly driven away. The flat felt extremely empty.

"What the hell is going on?" John said to himself.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

"Do you suppose this plan will go completely as designed?" Mycroft Holmes frowned over his steepled fingers at his little brother, who sat on the leather sofa, ankles crossed on the glass-topped coffee-table.

"It has to," the younger man said, staring at the chandelier. There was a cobweb between two of the crystals that danced in an unfelt draft. Mycroft glared harder at Sherlock.

"You are quite prepared for all outcomes? I envision there could be many," he said slowly.

"I forsee three possibilities," Sherlock said, uncrossing his ankles and planting his feet on the floor. He made eye contact for the first time since arriving. "The first being complete solving of the case with no long-lasting emotional damage for anyone."

"Naturally," Mycroft inclined his head slightly. "The second?"

"Solving of the case, but with… emotional consequences," Sherlock wrinkled one nostril at the thought.

"And finally?"

"You know finally."

"I want to hear you say it. So you know what it is you are getting into, Sherlock."

The dark-haired man gripped handfuls of his own hair and gritted his teeth. It was the possibility that was, ultimately, most-likely and most distressing. His older brother waited patiently for the display of passion to pass.

"I… I die, alright?" Sherlock said bluntly. "I fall down dead. Splat, kaboom, down I go," he snapped.

"And you are prepared for this eventuality?" Mycroft had not moved.

"Death is nothing to live in fear of," Sherlock reasoned.

"Then I will not attempt to dissuade you from this plan, however I must express to you my great distaste for involving Doctor Watson like this," Mycroft finally broke free of his statue-like pose and reached for his tea cup. "You must know how this will affect him."

"John's a strong man," the detective said.

"I don't deny that," Mycroft said, taking a sit of Earl Grey. "But if all hearts break, you must realise what you are risking," he set the cup back down. "He will never get over you."

"He must," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "You'll take care of that business for me, I trust?"

"Of course," the elder Holmes said, also standing. "You know me… Ever the secretary."

"Goodbye, Mycroft," Sherlock gave a ghost of a smile and headed out of the opulent building. He had business elsewhere.

"Farewell, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. He drew out his phone and carefully found the number of Doctor John Watson and pressed 'delete'. It was better to remove temptation altogether, after all.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

John had had a trying day. After Sherlock's departure, he had paid the bills (_Why do I always have to do this? _He thought furiously.), done the washing up (_Would it kill him to tip the tea out of the mug when he's finished?_) and filled the washing machine (_I'm not picking his pants off the floor, that's just too bloody domestic…_) before collapsing into his armchair with a Mr Kipling and a tea.

He looked about the flat. There was a slight smell of something burning, but that was the remnants of whatever Sherlock had had in the slow cooker. A thin layer of dust covered the mantle piece, and there was a small pile of crumpled letters in the grate. It was ultimately Sherlock's domain, and occasionally John felt like a visitor.

_Was that all last night was? A visit? _He recalled the 'I love you's and deep kisses that the man he loved had rained down on his as he drifted off into sleep. _He's just mysterious_, he assured himself, reaching for a book to read. His fingers brushed against the papers they had taken from William Yates' flat. _I never got around to reading them¸ _he thought guiltily. _Poor Will… his defence solicitor will be baying for our blood soon_, he fanned out the pages and extracted the ones in English.

**Am I dreaming you or are you dreaming me? The depth of the pool is nothing compared to the depth of the ocean we plunge into in our passion. The dread of loss cannot be denied. Then there is death, love's accomplice, always in the shadows, prepared to wrench, to kill, to strike and take away.**

John raised his eyebrows. It was not the sort of thing he preferred to read – too much symbolism and guessing for his liking, but he pressed on until he had finished the first, second, third and final pages.

**… and with these hands I take your mind and dissolve the passion, empty the ocean and destroy the forest of dreams. **

He finished the final page and flipped it over, disappointed not to find more. Will's handwritten notes in the margins had helped his decipher the text a little, but without reading the whole book, it was difficult to say if and how the pages had affected the case. Certainly there had been mention of death, but he had read enough John Grisham novels to prove that reading about murders in fiction did not make one a killer. He pursed his lips, scanning the text again.

The door slammed and John jumped, pages flying everywhere. Sherlock swept into the room, disrobing from his coat, yet saying nothing.

"Good day?" John ventured.

"Productive," Sherlock answered. "Interesting developments."

"For the case?"

"Yes," the detective said, opening the laptop again. "Did you pay the gas bill?"

"Um, yeah, I did," the doctor frowned, puzzled at the tone of his love's voice. It was cool, steady and calculated. "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"I am," he replied. The glow of the screen lit up his alabaster face, highlighting his high cheekbones and perfect lips. John turned his eyes away. Right now, he didn't feel like looking at Sherlock. In fact, he didn't even feel like sitting in the same room as the man. He got to his feet and walked to the kitchen.

"Mycroft sends his regards," the younger Holmes called.

"Thanks, at least someone cares," John whispered to the kettle. It was cold in Baker Street. He wondered if he should turn up the heating. He risked a glance at Sherlock who was typing fiercely, immersed in the 'developments' in the case. His eyes had the same fiery passion that had filled those pale globes during the previous night's… John screwed up his eyes and walked smartly out of the kitchen towards his bedroom. Sherlock was like a coin – he could flip at any moment, and John wasn't sure how to deal with this sudden change. He felt as though a lead weight was lain on his chest and his Adam's apple felt horribly tight. He paused in the hallway.

"Will you… be wanting me tonight?" he called, feeling horribly ridiculous.

"Why would I want you?" came the scathing reply.

"Why indeed?" John snarled, slamming his bedroom door. In the lounge, Sherlock Holmes dropped his face into his hands.


	15. Chapter 15

"Can I be honest, John? I don't know how much help I'm going to be here," Greg ran a finger over the condensation on his pint glass. "I'm a straight man, going through a bad divorce, and, let's face it, I don't really know what's going on here," he looked sheepishly across the table at Doctor Watson.

"You and me both," John said, spinning a beer mat between his fingers. "For the past week it's been like living with the old Sherlock again. You know, the coldness, the snaps and that look in his eye that says-"

"'You're stupid?'"

"Exactly," John said, dropping the mat onto the table. He stared at the chipped wooden surface, unseeing. "I'd say it's the case, but he's been talking to Will's solicitor every day, telling me nothing, of course, but that'd normally be enough to make him happy. He's even thrown away those skin samples he was keeping in the airing cupboard."

"I am so going to regret asking this, but… Are you… god, are you…" Greg's ears went red. "Are you still..?"

"No," John said, catching on and blushing back. "Not for a week or so," and he stared out of the leaded window in embarrassment.

"Sounds like just a blip," Lestrade said, drinking his lager. "What's a week? The missus didn't speak to me or touch me for six months before she'd admit there was something wrong."

"You reckon?"

"I do. You know Sherlock, he's probably thinking about something else."

"Yes, but I want – " John stopped himself and bit his lip. _I want him to be thinking about me_, he thought to himself. Greg noticed the wobble and leaned across the table, gripping the doctor by the forearm.

"You need to get out of the flat? Come stay with me for a few days. It's not as though I haven't got the room," he said bitterly. John considered.

"Thanks, Greg," he said. "I'll have a think about it."

"Do," the Detective Inspector smiled and drained his glass. "Want another?"

"No, I'm going to head back," John said, checking his watch. "It's late." They left the pub and out into February's freezing rain.

"Jesus," Greg said, turning his collar up. "You get this cab, I'll wait."

"Thanks," John smiled gratefully. "I'll text you if… If I decide to…"

"Sure," Greg grinned as the door slammed.

*/*/*/*

There was no one in 221B when John got back. There were the signs that Sherlock had been home – the playing card tower on the table, milk bottle on the mantelpiece and an empty packet of nicotine patches 'hidden' behind the skull. The doctor inhaled the cold air, feeling the sting in his lungs. It was as cold as the night in the alley, when they had fumbled, trying to devour each other against the icy bricks…

John felt his eyes pricking with heat and shook his head, dispelling the memory. Time for sleep. A new day, a new perspective. That drink with Lestrade hadn't helped at all. Greg's kind eyes and understanding smile came back him. Greg was a good guy. John was lucky to have him to talk to.

John stood, considering in the hallway, between bed and bathroom, before his body turned of its own accord and headed, unexpectedly, towards Sherlock's room. He paused outside the door, his hand on the handle. It was false brass, like his own; oval and scratched from over-use. It fit well into his hand. Much like Sherlock's own, spidery digits. That he had squeezed, along with his backside in full view of New Scotland Yard. The image in his mind evaporated as he pushed the door open.

If the flat was cold, Sherlock Holmes' bedroom was practically arctic. John's breath almost misted in front of him as he took one tentative, doubting step into the room. Sherlock's bed was dressed and unused – the sheets were turned down but immaculately made – John's soldier's eyes saw that it had not been slept in for several weeks. There was the smell of damp from the linen.

_What are you looking for, John_? He asked himself. _Proof? Something else to obsess over? You really are as stupid as he says, sometimes…_

One step was as far as John dared step into the interior of the private domain of his friend. He squinted in the gloom to see several identical black suits hanging in the open wardrobe, along with an assortment of dark shirts. The powder-blue dressing gown the detective wore when he was between cases was in a heap on the grey carpeted floor. On the dressing table was a comb, a small pot of some expensive hair-product and a mirror aimed upwards to reflect a tall face. The bedside table was empty save for a dusty-looking lamp and…

John's concrete legs unfroze and he stepped once more into the icy room. He squinted and made out the vague shape of a small, rectangular device…

_Her phone_, John's mind realised. _He keeps her phone next to his bed. _John's skin went hot and cold in seconds and his stomach churned. The beer he had drunk with Lestrade burned in his throat and he barely made it to the bathroom in time. Heaving into the ceramic void violently, his delirious brain wished he could flush away the past month – forget about the Blood Selling case, their first kiss, through to the last time he had touched Sherlock – run his hands over his flesh…

Exhausted, sweating and shaking, John slumped onto the cool linoleum floor, hugging the toilet bowl, his eyes and nose streaming. _I'm ill,_ he told himself. _My eyes are watering because I'm ill. I'll be fine in the morning._ And dragging himself up, he lurched towards his own room, slamming shut Sherlock's as he passed. His trembling hand closed his own bedroom door and his knees gave way, forcing him onto the carpet. Moisture clouded his vision and he leaned back against his own closed, bedroom door, knees up, his palms catching the water that flowed from his eyes. _I am not well_, he thought as he hugged his own knees. _I need to get better. _

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

"What do you mean, 'I'm working on it?'" William Yates' eyes flashed angrily at the stoic detective in front of him. "I've been in prison for nearly a month… what the _hell_ are you playing at?"

"Is that a note of ungratefulness I detect in your voice?" Sherlock Holmes said icily across the visiting table.

"No, no, of course not," Will sat back hurriedly. "I mean, I saw what happened with that Stravinsky woman as well… that proves it wasn't my fault, right?"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock said, examining his nails. "Coincidence is still a highly likely possibility."

"So you don't _know_? The famous Sherlock Holmes _does not know_?" Will's mouth dropped open.

"I want you to tell me about Anthony," the tall, dark-haired man said suddenly.

"Anthony?"

"Your boyfriend. The man you shot."

Will flinched as though Sherlock had slapped him. "I didn't…" he started to say, then stopped as the memory of the CCTV obviously flashed into his mind. "Anthony… Ant was twenty seven," he began slowly. "He was training to be a doctor… that took up all of his time, you know? It was so fucking annoying. He'd be off doing something stupid or on shifts and… We'd been together since the start of Uni, and we'd…" he stopped and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Why are you making me do this?" he said through gritted teeth.

"Because!" Sherlock roared, bashing the table with a gloved hand and making the rest of the visiting room jump. "Because I have to know! Were you happy?! Were you so sick of him you shot him and were glad?! What happened to you?! What happened to him?! What's going to happen to –" the tall man was on his feet, shouting down at the prisoner when his arms were seized by two prison guards. "Get _off_ me," he snarled, wrenching his arms free. The guards stood, hands on tasers, ready.

"I think you'd better leave, _sir_," one said carefully. Sherlock flipped his collar up and glared at Will whose eyes were red.

"Just you think about what happened," the detective hissed down at him, before marching himself out of the prison and into the twilight.


End file.
